


For a charm of powerful trouble

by Fanfreluche



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Blood Kink, Bondage, Boot Worship, Canonical Character Death, Choking, Crack, Cravings, Dialogue Heavy, Discussion of Abortion, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Food Kink, Genderbending, Gore, Gunplay, Hate Sex, Knifeplay, Masturbation, Mind the Pronouns!, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Possession, Power Imbalance, Pregnancy, Rape Aftermath, Rough Sex, Smut, Somnophilia, Supernatural Elements, Threesome, Trauma, Triggers, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, sad sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-02-27 06:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 40
Words: 130,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18733798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfreluche/pseuds/Fanfreluche
Summary: Four members of the gang drink the witch's brew from the cauldron in the hut in Ambarino and chaos ensues...





	1. O soave fanciulla

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: pronouns are all over the place, tread with caution!
> 
> This chapter is mostly from Dutch's POV.
> 
> More tags will be added as the story progresses.

He must be going mad. One moment he was listening to his favourite aria, smoking a cigar as he leant against the tent pole, eyes tracing the shimmering leaps of light on the lake, and then the next moment... Dutch blinked a couple of times as he watched the absurd ensemble of characters lined in front of him. He had long suspected that some members of the gang had begun to doubt his sanity, but it was just painful to think they may as well be right.

“What’s going on here!?” He tried to remain calm, no point in panicking just yet. There may yet be a logical explanation for what he saw before him, and even if it was a conjuration of his own imagination there must be a cure for these manner of ailments. “Would you care to tell us, one more time, _slowly_ , and preferably one by one, just who you are and what you are doing here?” He resumed, emboldened by the looks of disbelief cast by the rest of the camp inhabitants as they eyed the four odd looking fellows who claimed to know everyone and more ridiculously spoke as if they were part of the gang.

“Go on!” He barked when no answer came, stepping closer to carefully observe said individuals: three women of various ages, all wearing ill-fitting shirts and trousers, and a man about his own age dressed in a black women’s gown that was a couple of inches too tight for him. It wasn’t the way they dressed that bothered Dutch, rather the resemblance of the clothes to… No, it can’t be! He mentally kicked himself for even entertaining the idea...

“We... we can explain!” The oldest among the women croaked, in a tone that could be hardly mistaken for its close similarity to the drawl of a certain banjo-playing old coot. Dutch’s cold glare immediately switched to her, at which she gulped and smiled a lopsided smile before adding: “you see, we uh... It’s temporary, I swear! It all started when we-”

“Was all his idea!” The busty woman in a plaid shirt interrupted, waving her cavalry hat threateningly at the old woman. “He dragged us into it! Damn the bastard, I swear, Dutch, I had noth-”

“Oh like you weren’t beggin’ to be brought along!” The old woman shot back. “You were the most excited of the bunch!”

“But it was your idea!” The man in the woman’s garb spoke in a deep if a bit subdued voice, shaking his finger at the old woman. “Don’t you think you can get out of this one now! Ain’t that right, Arthur?”

The mention of Arthur - whose absence in the past few days had been palpably felt by the leader of the gang - and the unknown man's subsequent glance towards the woman in the blue shirt standing at the back of the group with half her face hidden beneath what appeared to be Arthur’s hat - _good God!_ \- proved too much for Dutch’s patience to bear. 

“Silence!” He threw both his hands up, bringing an instant halt to the bickering. “Who. Are. You? How did you came in possession of these clothes?”

“It’s _us_ Dutch!” The old woman stepped forward, casting furtive glances at the members of the gang who at their leader’s signal had started to circle the intruders. “Don’t you recognise us? It’s me, Uncle…” He patted his chest. “Whoopsie, or should I say, heehee, Aunt?”

“AUNT!!!” Dutch nearly exploded, and unable to contain his rage any longer, he lunged for the old woman but gathering his wits in the last moment he changed course and went for the male stranger instead, clasping his collar and shaking it with such ferocity that the bodice ripped, causing the man to shriek and wail like a dishonoured maiden, and Dutch to retreat in utter confusion.

“I think…” Hosea finally interjected, no less perplexed himself, but at least much calmer. “I think what they are trying to imply, unbelievable as it may be, is that they are Uncle... Bill, Miss Grimshaw?” He pointed to each individual, finally moving to the woman in blue, “and Arthur…”

“Arthur!??” Dutch snapped at Hosea, distinctly feeling a vein throbbing on his forehead. “Have you lost your mind, friend?” And as if to demonstrate a point, he pulled the woman in question forward by her black neckerchief and knocked off her hat, only to end up entirely transfixed as he stared into her distressed blue-green eyes, not precisely because of her uncanny likeness to his boy, but... damn, she was exceptionally pretty! A few seconds lapsed before he let go of her, just in time to hear what other members of the gang had to say, one by one as they emerged from their stupor.

“They sure do look like them…” Was Lenny’s contribution, followed by Mary-Beth who nodded in agreement.

Charles, in the meanwhile, picked up Arthur’s hat from the ground and handed it to its owner, having dusted it first. The gesture was received with a grateful half-smile.

“But how can this be?” Strauss asked with no little amount of curiosity. “It must be some sort of joke. Herr Morgan is known to be a rather mischievous young man. I wager he-”

“Well, you see,” Uncle jumped in, seizing this moment of relative calmth to relate what he deemed no doubt to be a most wondrous tale. “Bill and I found this-”

“ _You_ did!” Bill protested, but was mostly ignored.

“As I was saying, _I_ found this witch’s shack in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in Ambarino,” Uncle continued, “and told about it to Bill, and we reckoned it’d be mighty funny if we showed it to Susan, in case she missed her coven or somesuch. And so we asked her, nicely, to come and see it for herself... But then big ol’ Morgan happened ‘pon us just as we were fixing to leave the camp, and Susan asked him to come along so they could give us a good thrashing once our hoax was exposed, I suppose, and as you can see it was no bluff, no sirree!”

“I admit I have never felt so ashamed in my life as I do now for having followed these two degenerates,” Susan assumed the role of the speaker once he had sufficiently recovered from his ordeal, sensing an air of growing impatience with Uncle’s ramblings. “And even more so for dragging Mr Morgan into this and to that ominous mountebank’s hovel or whatever it was... Along with all sorts of strange trinkets and furnishings, there was a huge cauldron with a bubbling, smoking grey substance inside,” he grimaced at the memory of the discovery. “It looked awful…”

“Worse than Pearson’s stew?” Sean tried to lighten to mood but was hushed by Karen’s brutal elbow.

“Pheeeewwwww what a smell!” Uncle took the opportunity to take over again. “Like a hundred boiling skunk hides mixed with... uh, owl shit and-”

“And so you decided to drink it?” Hosea asked as mildly as he could manage, chewing the corner of his bottom lip.

“It’s all his fault!” Bill pointed at Arthur, who shrank even more into herself if such a thing was even possible. “He found that parchment with the inscription saying whoever drank the brew his biggest wish would come true!”

“Looks like yours did, _Marianne_!” Micah, late to join the group, remarked and was set upon by a furious Bill awkwardly held back by Lenny and John, whose head was almost swallowed in Bill’s ample, plush bosom.

“Tsk... never in my life have I felt so stupid,” Susan shook his head dejectedly. “Can’t even blame it on being drunk! Unlike those two idiots…” He looked at Bill and Uncle and sighed. “They fought over who would drink first, and one thing led to another and we all decided we should drink at the same time, and so we did.” He made a motion with his hands then as to suggest the obvious result. “Must have been something about the air in the hut, reckon it was hexed too…”

There was a moment of silence that seemed to last a century whose main cultural product was a symphony by crickets chirping in celebration of the advent of yet another early evening in Clement’s Point.

“And you expect us to believe this story?” Hosea’s narrowed gaze was wary and somewhat bewildered. “To accept that you aren’t a bunch of conmen and women who have somehow got hold of our people and think us stupid enough to believe in witches and bubbling potions? What did you do to them, hmm? They better be alive or…” His frustration mounting, Hosea turned to his partner for support, “Dutch?”

Having been addressed directly, Dutch snapped out of his reverie and finally peeled his eyes off ‘Arthur’ to look at his old friend. “Hmm, yes…” He coughed once before booming in his habitually imperious voice: “Well, friends, there is a very simple way to find out if our guests are telling the truth. I congratulate myself for being an open-minded man who is not in the habit of dismissing hypotheses without having first put them to test. We shall proceed without prejudice and presume there might be a chance they are speaking the truth.” Entirely ignoring Hosea’s questioning glance, he grabbed hold of Arthur’s wrist and pulled her towards him as he made a start for his tent. Stopping midway, Dutch turned to address the gang: “I’ll interrogate this one, as I know Arthur best. Hosea, Reverend, I trust you can find out if this is our own Uncle. Javier, John, I believe you spend the most time with Bill? And I leave Susan to Abigail and Strauss. Best the interviews are conducted separately, we’ll compare notes afterwards.” Without waiting for any commentaries, he paced the few steps left to the tent and having asked Molly, in an almost uncharacteristically gentle tone, to sit with the other girls for a while, he pushed his charge inside the tent, himself following suit, fastening the flaps behind him.

“Sit,” Dutch ordered, gesturing at the cot. His eyes lingered on the young woman as she obeyed, her movements somewhat peculiar as if she expected her body to be much heavier and larger. The way she positioned her feet almost resembled Arthur’s, as did the restless little shifts of her hands on her thighs. She had the same hair colour and length with locks falling just below the soft curve of her jawline. There was no trace of a stubble, of course, but the knife mark was exactly in the same place on her chin. He noticed a blossoming blush on her sunburnt cheeks and reckoned she must have caught sight of him licking his lips as he stared at her slightly parted mouth, bitten cherry-red out of worry no doubt.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, in a much more tender tone than he had intended initially. He pulled a crate and sat in front of her, tilting his head in an attempt to capture her evasive gaze. “I just want to hear the truth.”

“Dutch, I…” she began, but stopped immediately and lowered her eyes, a hand flying to her mouth to catch any further words, alarmed as she appeared to be by either what she was going to say or perhaps her own voice. 

“Yes?” He responded with an attentive softness that came to him instinctively, unable to resist the pull of the supplicatingly familiar intonation of his name spoken by an unfamiliar creature. “I’m listening…” He whispered, and having cleared his throat, added: “Tell me what happened. I believe you.” Normally Dutch wouldn’t be so obliging in the course of an interrogation, but at that moment he found himself too distracted by the fact that she hadn’t flinched when he pressed a hand encouragingly to her knee, as if used to the touch.

“I’m sorry, Dutch, I’m such a fool…” The woman began, her tone a bit firmer even if drenched in shame. “It’s just as they said… I’m sure it’s temporary? Reckon it should go away in a few days?” She was hesitant but he could see a glimmer of hope in her lovely eyes when she raised her head slightly, looking for assurance.

“Sure, son,” Dutch smiled, all reassurance, cupping her cheek in the palm of his left hand. “Don’t you worry about nothing now. I’ll take care of it.” He still couldn’t bring himself to believe a word of what she was saying, of course. His reason told him to agree with Strauss; this must be some prank played by Arthur and Uncle, who must have found some poor whores who looked like them and paid them for a little performance. Even so, it didn’t mean he shouldn’t be enjoying himself. Heck, he was even willing to play along and pretend he believed a scenario that was so elaborately presented before him. And so, having made up his mind to momentarily abandon all doubt, Dutch let his fingers slip through the woman’s sandy hair, until his hand came to rest on the back of her neck, which he began massaging ever so slowly in tandem with the circular motion of his fingertips on her thigh. He could feel her tense a little, charming confusion veiling her gaze as if she had somehow been betrayed, before her eyes blew wide open as he leant forward, his hand travelling from her thigh to her belly to push her back steadily.

“Dutch! What are you doing?” The woman protested, panting like a wounded deer as she pushed back against his chest and the hand that moved to circle around her throat. “It’s me, Arthur! Just, damn it... ask some questions if you don’t believe me!”

“And what if I believe you?” Dutch paused, parting his mouth from the curve of her neck, where he was not kissing just yet but taking in her sweet scent as he nibbled and licked, nuzzling her earlobe with his nose. He relished in the shudder than ran through her body as he slid up a bit to whispurr her name: “Hmm, _Arthur_?” The benefit of ill-fitting clothes was that his right hand could slip quite easily into her trousers and then union suit. A groan left his chest at the heat of her sex when his fingers nestled in its pliant folds.

“Dutch!” She gasped, and tried to fight him off after an instant of dazed surrender following his utterance of her name. She looked obviously frustrated by her own lack of strength, which somehow spurred Dutch on.

“What if I believe that you’re Arthur and still want this?” He hissed, and ignoring her intensified struggles, he pressed his weight on top of her, rocking his hardening bulge against her thigh. “What if I want to fuck you because I believe you’re Arthur?” Not expecting an answer, he claimed her mouth with his, using her shock to push her open with his tongue, growling as he felt her cunt moistening around his fingers. “Can you imagine what this does to me?”

He wasn’t lying. The thought of dominating his beautiful creation in every possible way was enough to drive him mad, let alone acting on it. Besides, he had never seen his usually cocky son this shy and meek, and the novelty of the experience forced his mouth away from her delicious lips to her throat, replacing a hand that was now ripping her shirt open, cupping her breasts, kneading urgently as his teeth latched onto her neck. She tried to claw his hands away, but for some reason she hadn’t screamed yet. Perhaps too ashamed to be seen like that? Or simply not used to screaming? Not that Dutch cared anymore... He was enjoying himself too much, sucking and nibbling on her nipples as he pushed a ringed finger inside her narrow passage, teasing her engorged clit with his thumb, hmmm... Soon she was arching into his embrace and mewling in pure want. Slowly but surely he removed articles of clothing and discarded them on the floor of the tent, all the while licking and caressing bits of uncovered skin. He couldn’t quite tell when she stopped resisting altogether, but by the time he positioned himself between her legs, his leaking cock waiting at her entrance, she seemed to be in a state of complete submission, which he rewarded with a lingering kiss.

Pulling back, he took a moment to savour the spectacle before him: blue eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed crimson, breasts covered in a film of sweat as they rose and fell rhythmically. His triumphant gaze locked with hers as he pushed in. He didn’t stop until he was fully encased in her tight heat, her sharp sigh prompting him to close his eyes in sheer ecstasy and inhale. The pleasure was incomparable. In a show of gratitude, he gently wiped her tears from the corner of her eyes with the pad of his thumb and brought it to her mouth to suck on, a distraction from the initial pain that was to follow when he started moving.

He took his time at first, leisurely stroking her sensitive nub while he delighted in shallow thrusts. He loved to see his women take pleasure from lovemaking, the power it made him feel over them was heady. But in this case he felt all the more satisfied knowing how guilty Arthur must feel in throes of realising he loved being fucked by the man who had raised him. His hold on him would last eternally now, Dutch surmised, imagining instances in future when only a tiny reminder would suffice to rein in his unruly boy: _remember, son?_

The backhand elicited a startled gasp from Arthur, whose eyes, glistening with hurt, where now fixed on Dutch again, as they should be. “Look at me when I fuck you,” He warned for good measure, pulling almost out to thrust back in, continuing the trend until he was bucking with vicious intent which drove her almost off the bed. She clung to him even more urgently now, her legs wrapped securely around his hips. He braced her head in his hand when it almost fell off the edge of the bed, pulling her back to him, kissing the side of her head as he murmured sweet nothings in her ear.

“Dutch…”

“Hmm…” He kissed and licked her nipples, biting gently, sighing when her dainty fingers tangled in his hair. “I’m close, darling, do you want it in your mouth or in your cunt?” He barked a laugh in surprise when in response she squeezed her thighs around him, pulling him closer. His laughter coincided with her peak and he had to concentrate very hard not to climax while he continued manipulating her clit in a successful endeavour to prolong her bliss. Feeling the grip of her soft thighs loosening, he flipped her unto her stomach and pushed back inside, holding up her hips with one hand while the other clasped her throat, pushing her head down, both hands squeezing firmly enough to leave bruises. His guttural grunts were loud and animalistic when he spilled inside her, hips snapping forward savagely as his vision went white in rapture. He didn’t pull out immediately, instead pressed his weight down to keep her in check, teeth gripping the back of her neck as one hand massaged her belly gently, the other hand still holding her hips up while he relished the sensation of her walls pulsing around his cock.

Eventually, he turned her so she was resting on her back again, and brought his mouth to the entrance of her sex to lap up their juices, then moving to kiss her, he fed her their mingled taste with his tongue, caressing her all the while.

“So tell me,” Dutch whispered, settling on his side beside Arthur whom he pulled to himself, her back draped against his chest, both panting in unison. He turned her face towards him, her moist blue eyes drowned in his dark depth. “Is this your one true wish?”

He didn’t get to receive an answer, however, as the tent flaps were pushed open and Hosea stepped in. “Dutch, what’s taki…” The old man stood petrified, “...are you... What are you doing!?”

“Care to have a taste, old friend?” Dutch asked nonchalantly, a cruel smile adorning the corner of his lips as he held Arthur still. “Eager to please and obedient... just perfect.” He pecked the damp strands stuck to her temple affectionately, his eyes never leaving Hosea’s. “But we know that already, don’t we?”


	2. Ah! je ris de me voir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur’s POV, reflected in the pronouns!
> 
> Angst. Fluff? John is a gentleboah.

_Is this your one true wish?_

Scarcely had he recovered a shred of abstracted peace when the words rushed back to him with a vengeance, threatening to send him back to a place he cared not to return to, having spent the past few hours in its harrowing depths. Out of cigarettes, to escape the words Arthur splashed his already wet face repeatedly with lake water until the front of his shirt and his sleeves were thoroughly soaked. Droplets dripped from his forelocks as he bent over the gradually smoothing watery surface to look at his own visage, to be greeted by a look of surprise. It never got old, no matter how many times he looked at himself, he couldn’t help but think it was someone else who was watching him back.

Someone with eyes a bit larger than his, smoother skin, softer contours, and a dusting of blonde down above his upper lip where a budding mustache used to bide. And to think he had finally decided to grow one… Letting out a sigh, he brushed a fingertip through the tiny hair, then over his lips, his chin, sliding down to his neck, which he touched gingerly, wincing as his thumb pressed on top of an as-of-yet invisible bruise. He would not spare time reflecting on its provenance, and instead busied himself with further tactile explorations, still not daring to move beneath the fabric as he surveyed his shoulders, arms, his chest, belly, waist… hmm, he closed his eyes for a moment and thought of Mary and all the times he had seized her slender waist to hold her still when she became too restless, long ago now… He had almost forgotten the sensation and wondered if he could partially revive its memory by…

“Uh… hey, can I… join you for a moment?”

Arthur’s wicked soul almost bid farewell to his earthly frame. He hadn’t heard the sound of approaching footsteps and initially mistook the voice for... Suffice to say, he had never been more glad to see John.

“Sure.”

He scooted to sit on a grassy patch and motioned for John to sit beside him, rather irritated to realise John’s lanky figure was now about his own size, if not larger and taller. 

“So, um, is it really you then?” 

He eyed John’s confused expression, then the bottle of beer hanging from his long, thin fingers. His annoyance mounting, Arthur frowned and spat at the boy: “What sort of question is that, Marston? Suppose it _wasn’t_ me, would I tell you I wasn’t just cause you asked?” 

“I don’t know!” John shrugged defensively, his eyes cast down. He looked almost chastised and daresay docile, which astonished Arthur who was used the boy’s pesky defiance. So he listened to big sisters better than big brothers, huh?

“It’s just… I’ve never seen anything like this,” John resumed, watching him. “Are you alright?”

“Lots of strange things happen around us, John,” Arthur mused loudly, dodging the question as he focused his squinted gaze on the reflection of the waxing moon on the lake. “I’ve seen some pretty weird things out there, giant skeletons, green lights in the night sky pouring from odd looking flying machines, wailing ghosts in the bayou… Did you know there is a-”

“Are you crying?” John suddenly asked, his eyes widened in stupid concern as he stared at him.

“No, I ain’t!” Arthur squared his shoulders and sat upright. Grabbing the bottle, he swigged several gulps of beer in quick succession.

“You are!” John persisted, speaking much louder than necessary, or prudent, given the circumstances. “You okay, Arthur?” 

“I’m fine!” He hissed, wiping stray teardrops away with his damp sleeves as he stood up to get further away from the camp. “Leave it, Marston!” He barked, throwing the empty bottle in the lake, but John was on his feet already, following him, the idiot that he was. He shook John’s hand off his arm but he had to turn around in the process and the worried look he saw on John’s face was enough to send tears flooding down his cheeks. A beat later, he was held fast in John’s embrace, suffocating but also, somehow, safe. 

“You’re okay,” John tried to comfort him, rubbing his hand gently on the small of his back, pressing his face to his chest. “It’ll be fine... It’ll wear off in a couple of days, a week at most, that’s how long these things usually last from what I know…”

John’s raspy voice used to grate on his nerves whenever he wasn’t in a particularly sociable mood, but now it had a strangely calmative effect, even if the boy had no clue what he was talking about, or indeed what Arthur was truly troubled by and could never bring himself to share with John, or anyone else for that matter… Hosea’s face flashed before him, but he thrust the notion to the very back of his mind. He couldn’t face him now, not so soon. He had never seen Hosea so angry and his rage was even more frightening than the other man’s for being all the rarer. At the same time, Arthur couldn’t dispel the impression that Hosea was angry at _him_. Like it had been his fault, like he had done something, or hadn’t done something that he should have done… He took an ounce of comfort in reminding himself that there was evidence against this line of enquiry; last time he’d seen Hosea, he and... Dutch had been at each other’s throats, while Arthur fled half-naked, rushing to hide in Marston’s tent, his own being too open to the elements and eyes. 

“Least you’re lucky you look nice,” John chuckled once he felt the sobbing subside. “Not like Uncle or Bill! Though, I have to say, Mister Grimshaw turned out fine too! All the girls will be swooning after him now… I bet he’s just the type Mary-Beth likes, or maybe Karen, imagine that! Tilly probably-”

“John, shut up…” Arthur sighed, feeling a little better, miraculously, who would have thought Johnny Marston had it in him to soothe a damsel in distress. He had always wondered what Abigail saw in him, but now he was beginning to understand, a tiny bit. “How are they holding up?” He quirked an eyebrow, pushing himself free from John’s arms. 

“Fine, I guess... ” John responded, looking a bit disappointed for whatever reason. “Uncle’s the same. Bill’s pretty unhappy, so same. Haven’t seen much of Susan... You should get some rest.” He suggested when he saw Arthur yawn, adding as an afterthought: “Use my tent, if you like.”

Arthur nodded, patting John on the back out of habit. He needed to sleep. Maybe he’d wake up and all of this would turn out to be a cursed nightmare… 

They walked quietly towards the camp, leaves and pebbles crunching under their boots. Thankfully no one seemed to be awake and the only human(oid) noise came from Uncle who was sprawled next to the central tree, snoring. Some things never change. 

“Just need to get some stuff,” John explained in a hushed tone. He must have sensed the look of apprehension in Arthur’s eyes when he followed him inside the tent. 

Arthur waited for him to get his things and be on his way before sitting on the cot, only to get up instantly. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you…” He felt embarrassed to say it, but it was better than the alternative, “... sleep inside?”

“Here? In the tent?”

“Yeah, as in… on the floor,” Arthur pointed to the tent’s entrance, vaguely implying that John should sleep in a way as to block anyone who might be seeking entry.

“Sure… Let me get a bedroll then...” 

Watching him leave, Arthur felt grateful towards John for not asking questions, even though he clearly had a few on his mind. Not feeling up to further conversation, he stripped off his shirt and trousers and slipped under the blanket, turning to rest on his belly, hiding his face in John’s smelly pillow. Argh, he should have asked John to bring him his own pillow, he lamented belatedly, and was soon fast asleep.

Or so he thought… until the tent flaps were torn apart and in leapt a figure of monstrous deportment, eyes bloodshot with lust or ire, perhaps both, and tongue, snakelike, forked. Arthur quickly reached for his pistols but couldn’t find his gunbelt where he had left it on the floor. His knife was nowhere to be seen. The only obstacle standing between him and the beast was a big black dog that for some reason he addressed as ‘golden boy’ when he ordered it to CATCH! the intruder. The struggle was brutal, and victory short-lived. Once subdued, the monster appeared, much to his chagrin, to be Hosea, his broken neck bleeding in the dog’s jaws. He wanted to scream, yet no sound came out. He tried to detach the dog from the corpse, and when it twisted its head towards him, he noticed that it was not really a dog but a pitch-black coyote, its drooling scarlet tongue lolling at the side of its expanding maw, where rows of unending teeth materialised to snatch his throat... 

Arthur woke up overwhelmed by terror, trembling as he looked to his left and right, having difficulty to figure out where he was. His union suit was drenched in sweat. Panting uncontrollably, he tried to sit up, but his limbs were too heavy until at least he had woken more fully. He must have slept only a couple of hours; he could tell it was still dark outside through rips in the fabric of the tent. John was snoring lightly. Arthur took a deep breath and fell back on the cot, knowing full well that he was far from being in a state where he could fall asleep. Usually when insomnia hit him, he did one of two things: drank water or jerked off. He didn’t quite fancy stepping out of the tent just then, so water was out of the question. As for the other option… He never thought he’d come to a point in his sorry life where he would miss his cock so dearly. Well no, that was a lie; earlier when he had felt the need to relieve himself he had come to face a very similar episode of nostalgia.

Exhaling a sigh, Arthur turned on his side and closed his eyes. It didn’t seem quite right to him that he should allow himself to touch his new body in any manner other than clinical. As if he would be violating a stranger, at the idea of which the memory of a certain encounter decided to pay him a visit, prompting his cheeks to grow hot, in anger, or so he told himself... How could a man he revered so much, trusted so much, bring himself to do something like that to him? He had tried to stop asking the same question over and over, but now that he seemed unable to avoid the thought, he couldn’t help but wonder bitterly that had the situation been reversed, he would have treated Dutch with the respect and tenderness a lady deserved... True, he wasn’t always kind to women, which he often justified by reasoning that not all women were exactly ladies… But then, Dutch _would_ be a lady, wouldn’t he? All elegance and sophisticated command, dressed impeccably, not unlike Mary perhaps… It occurred to him just then that they both had beauty marks on their cheeks, on opposite sides… Sure, he would have wanted to fuck Dutch, but he’d never force himself on him! A smile sat on his lips as he imagined himself an exemplary knight at the court of Queen Dutch… It would take him ages of questing to win her approval, but oh when he did… the things he would do to her...

Halfway through his fantasy, it dawned on Arthur that the growing wetness between his legs corresponded to his mounting arousal. The sensation was quite novel and made him squeeze his thighs together, which didn’t alleviate the situation. He badly longed to touch himself now to relieve the deepening ache, but to do so would signify crossing a threshold where, once passed, he would have to acknowledge the reality of his new existence... In the end desire won. And so he found himself exploring the unfamiliar terrain of his breasts beneath the rough texture of the union suit, first with tentative fingers, then needy palms. Strange how good it felt, not only because of the delight of having his moist sex stroked, but for the satisfaction he felt at slipping his fingers into a woman’s tight cunt. It had been years since he’d permitted himself the pleasure. His thoughts flew to Mary once more, adding to the intensity of the caresses. Soon he was writhing and gasping under the blanket… _Oh, Arthur_... Her voice resounding in his head, his left hand involuntarily slipped to his throat, clutching tight when he found the bruise marks he’d received earlier that evening… He bit the pillow in an attempt to suppress the moans that spilled from his mouth, awkwardly as he tried to adjust his ministrations in hope of hastening his climax. It took him a while to register he required both hands to produce the best titillation and the right amount of friction, and even then an ingredient seemed to be missing… a memory... a thought… forbidden and obscene… _Care to have a taste, old friend?_...

Time stopped. His heart beat thunderously in his chest, and there was only one voice guiding his reality throughout the seconds when, his back arched, he inhaled the sweet scent of his release. He flinched as he pulled his fingers out, careful not to graze his already overstimulated clit. Then collapsed on the mattress, wiping his hands clean on John’s sheets. Just as he was drifting off into a hopefully tranquil slumber, he promised himself that he would get back at Dutch. He had always had something that Dutch wanted, but for the first time in his life it occurred to him that he could use that thing - no matter if its nature had changed now - to bring him to heel… maybe even get Dutch to pound a man to a pulp for his sake, for a change... 

In his moment of post-orgasmic enlightenment, what Arthur remained in the dark about was the fact that John’s snoring had at some point reduced into deep breathing which by now had transformed into absolute silence. His eyes wide open, Marston lay unmoving as he stared at the tent’s ceiling, stiff as a mummy with a rock-hard cock to boot.


	3. Tra cento affetti e cento

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s POV. Mind the pronouns!

John was confused. He had been trying to carve a wooden toy-bear for Jack but had cut his finger in the process and was now sucking the wound absentmindedly as he eyed Uncle sending an air-kiss to Micah who had a moment earlier pinched his bare arse, visible through the open flap of the red union suit. Uncle looked almost exactly the same, as if someone had clipped his beard and fixed it on top of his head. That wasn’t what was distracting John though. The past three nights he’d barely got any rest, thanks to Arthur’s nocturnal exploits... And fatigue was taking its toll on him, robbing him of all focus. He didn’t want to leave Arthur alone in the tent at night, and he couldn’t very well ask him to stop what he was doing, or he might, well, stop... 

John sighed and let his tired gaze follow Micah as he walked away from Uncle in disgust. Whatever he said to Bill when he arrived at the campfire aggravated Bill enough to make him leave immediately, followed by Lenny who said something to Micah who spat a piece of tobacco on the ground in response. Alone, Micah sat on a chair, put his feet up on a crate and broke out into whistling merrily whenever he wasn’t quaffing beer. John had never seen him so jolly and the sight troubled him enough to want to look away.

He must have been absorbed in watching Cain for a good few minutes when he was addressed by a voice he couldn’t quite place.

“Mr Marston, do you have nothing better to do than stare at that poor mutt?”

“Miss Grimshaw.”

“Just Grimshaw is fine.”

Susan looked exceptionally dapper with her new clothes, haircut, and impressive sideburn. Almost like she was imitating Dutch, but without the conspicuous jewellery. He wondered where she’d got the clothes from and his question must have shown in his eyes, judging by her next words.

“Got them from Saint Denis,” there was unmistakable pride in her voice. “Pretty nice, aren’t they? Glad I’d kept some savings. Gonna get the carriage and take the girls out for a ride in the city this afternoon. Poor things need some diversion, Tilly especially, she doesn’t like it here at all… Care to join us? We can take Jack and Abigail too.”

“Uh, thanks, but… I’ve got things to do,” John shook his head. “Take Abigail and Jack though, they’d like to go, I think.”

“Alright then,” Susan nodded, and was about to leave when she came into a halt and added in an almost conspiratorially hushed tone: “What about Mr Morgan? Do you think he’d want to come along? Where is he anyway?”

“With Mrs Adler,” John explained, scratching the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t know really. Reckon he’d want to be left alone…”

“When doesn’t he?” Susan shrugged and walked away. 

John exhaled in relief. Best not to add to Arthur’s concerns, he thought, considering how he tended to avoid most gang members. He had noticed how Arthur mostly kept to himself, hanging out only with Charles and Sadie, apart from himself. Hosea had left the camp the morning after Arthur’s return without telling anyone where he was going to and when he would be back, which was odd in itself. Even more extraordinary, however, was the way Dutch and Arthur communicated, or rather didn’t, given they hadn’t spoken a word with each other in the past few days. It didn’t happen often that they were in the same spot at the same time, especially with Arthur finding excuses to leave whenever Dutch appeared. But the few times they did happen to be in each other’s vicinity, there was this heavy tension in air, with Arthur staring at the ground and Dutch not taking his eyes off him, relenting occasionally to glare daggers at Charles who, astonishingly, stared back at Dutch without leaving Arthur’s side. He’d never imagined Charles would dare to look at their leader like that, but in a way he could understand why he did it… Sometimes the way Dutch looked at Arthur made John bristle and clench his fists… Especially last night around the campfire when Dutch, standing, placed a hand on a seated Arthur’s shoulder. John hadn’t been in a position to spy Arthur’s expression when he lifted his head in Dutch’s direction, but there must have been something there to make Dutch look at once infuriated and crushed, again something John had never seen before. 

And that wasn’t all. There seemed to be a whole division in the camp regarding people’s interactions with Dutch, split into two categories of normal and hostile or fearful. From what John could see, the people in the first group were himself, Abigail, Javier, Bill, Sean, Strauss, Susan, Uncle, Swanson and Micah. As for the rest, Molly was even more incensed than usual, and threatened to leave until Dutch somehow placated her. Lenny was somewhat sullen, and Charles looked as if he was ready to charge at the minutest of signals. The girls seemed to be generally wary of Dutch, and Keiran more so than he usually was. Hosea and Trelawny were away so he wouldn’t know about them, yet he wondered if something had happened between Dutch and Hosea to make the latter leave unannounced. 

“How are you doing, John?”

Speak of the devil. 

“Fine, Dutch…” He stood up. 

“Is that for Jack?” Dutch motioned at the half-carved bear, removing it from John’s hand and inspecting it carefully. “Very good, son. I bet he’d be glad.” He paused and handed the bear back to John, his thumb brushing against the fresh cut on John’s finger either by accident or design, making him wince. “You should pay more attention to the boy and Abigail. Don’t forget your duties towards them, John.”

“Right…” John was somewhat taken aback. Dutch had never encouraged him to be a family man, quite the contrary, he always seemed pissed when John spent too much time with Abigail. “You know where Hosea went off to?”

“No,” came the matter-of-fact response. “Is Arthur alright?”

Again, John was caught off-guard. He didn’t know what exactly he was supposed to say, so just nodded and shrugged his shoulders.

“Are you sure?” Dutch raised an eyebrow. “Cause she seems a bit off lately…” 

“Considering what’s happened to him, that’s to be expected, no?” John hadn't meant to sound so churlish but couldn’t really help it. He tried to compensate with a half-hearted smile. “Don’t worry, Dutch, he’ll be fine.”

“Oh, I’m not worried, son…” Dutch took a puff at his cigar. “Not with you watching over her night and day.”

“Look, she… He asked me to-”

“Did she now?” The smile on Dutch’s lips didn’t reach his eyes, though there was a measure of amusement in them and something else John couldn’t quite put a name to. He extended a hand and patted John’s shoulder before turning to leave. 

John hadn’t noticed he had held his breath until Dutch was gone. Shaking his head, he decided he should take a nap; now that Arthur was gone it was the perfect time to do just that. His sleep was uneventful and when he woke up it was already late evening. The smell of Pearson’s stew drew him to the pot and once he’d got himself a plate of the hearty brew he headed for the round table to sit with Bill, Sean and Kieran. 

“Gentlemen…” He was going to add a jokey ‘m’ lady’ but the look on Bill’s face held him back. 

“What’s up, Marston?” Sean drawled, offering him some whiskey. “Is Arthur okay?”

“Yeah.” John was beginning to get tired of everyone asking him about Morgan. “Just dandy.”

“Wow, lucky Morgan,” Bill spouted bitterly. 

“Why, you ain’t happy?” John asked, munching a potato.

“Well, look at me, Marston,” Bill dropped his spoon in his stew and grabbed his tits with both hands for emphasis. 

“Why, don’t like ‘em? Give ‘em to me then,” Sean chuckled, trying to cop a feel. “Come here you poor unloved darlins…”

“I thought you’d like it though,” John remarked, half-serious, half in jest, while Bill grappled with Sean. 

“Why does everyone say that?” Bill snapped at John indignantly, forgetting to fight off Sean for a moment which resulted in a triumphant grab. Bill didn’t even care and only smacked Sean when he got too enthusiastic. 

“Cause, well… you know…”

“Cause I fancy men?” 

At Williamson’s admission there was a moment of silence. They were all aware of Bill’s preferences, but other than accidental slips in drunken anecdotes, this was the first he had spoken about it out loud. 

“For your information…” Bill began, but was either overcome by embarrassment halfway through or couldn’t find quite the right words, or perhaps lost hope in his audience’s capacity for understanding, so instead grunted in frustration and stood up in a huff. 

“I think you look pretty okay for a woman!” Kieran squeaked just as Bill was about to leave. “If that’s what you’re worried about...” 

Bill plodded away with a dejected sigh, a bottle of whiskey in each hand.

“Ahhhh, too bad for you boyo… Bill’s got _me_ now!” Sean teased a flustering Kieran who kept mumbling something about how he hadn’t meant it ‘that’ way and just wanted to make Bill feel better.

“We need to speak, John.”

It was Abigail and she didn’t look happy, but what’s new… John left the table and walked with her to a relatively secluded area behind the women’s wagons. They sat on a tree trunk by the shore.

“Just don’t ask me how Arthur is!” John grumbled, pushing dirt and pebbles back and forth with the toe of his boot. “He’s doing fine...”

Abigail stared at him in a way he didn’t like at all. 

“Why you looking at me like that?”

“I think I should sleep in the tent with Arthur,” she spoke at length, with not a little conviction. “You should sleep in Arthur’s tent.”

“Why? What’s this about?”

“It’s not right… He’s, well, a woman now. You shouldn’t be sleeping in the same tent.” Abigail pressed a gentle boot on top of John’s to stop his feet from fidgeting. “Makes Arthur uncomfortable.”

“No, it doesn’t!”

“You don’t get it John,” Abigail insisted, “it’s a… a women’s thing!”

“Are you jealous?” John would have laughed if he hadn’t been so irked. 

“No, John Marston, I’m not jealous!” Abigail got up, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “It’s just not right.”

“Well, I don’t like the idea of you sleeping with Arthur in the same tent either!” John confessed, just as it dawned on him that he wouldn’t want even a female Arthur to see Abigail naked or something... “What if it puts some... ideas in his head for later when he’s turned back?”

“Don’t be silly, John!”

“You’re the one being silly!”

“It’s not just me,” Abigail sat down again, a bit closer to John. “Dutch thinks so too…”

“Dutch what?” John couldn’t believe what he was hearing, nor did he realise he’d lost all control over the volume of his voice.

“He told me himself, and he’s right… Look, we can ask Mary-Beth or Karen-”

“No, we can’t!” John pushed Abigail’s hand off his arm. “Arthur’s afraid... of Micah. Told me so himself, asked me to look after him.” The Micah bit was a lie, of course, but a damned good one, he reckoned. “He’s my brother, I can’t break my promise to him.”

Deciding it was time to make his escape, John rose to his feet and headed for the trees nearby, pretending he couldn’t hear Abigail shouting that Sadie could protect Arthur from Micah just as well. God, that woman drove him mad sometimes! And that bastard Dutch! How dare he? John marched for an hour or so in the woods until he was less agitated. When he came back to the camp it was already nighttime. He headed straight for Dutch’s tent. The man was sitting inside alone, smoking a cigar and reading by lantern-light. 

“Dutch,” John stepped in but didn’t take a seat and wasn’t invited to either.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you tell Abigail it wasn’t right for me to sleep in the same tent with Arthur?” He tried to keep his voice level by digging his nails into the palms of his hands. “It’s none of your business where I sleep.”

Dutch snapped his book shut without looking up. He turned towards the phonograph and lifted its needle carefully. The music stopped. When he spoke his tone was unexpectedly calm. 

“Let’s take a walk, John.”

They advanced at a slow pace, John following Dutch, who puffed at his cigar in silence. Once they’d arrived at a certain distance from the camp, he extinguished the cigar on a tree trunk and before John could blink an eye his back was knocked hard into the same tree, Dutch’s forearm locked against his throat, forcing his chin up.

“Listen very carefully, John, I will say this only once,” Dutch pressed his full weight against John, pinning him to the tree as he endeavoured to free himself from the ambush. “Whatever I want to do with _my_ boys is _my_ business. Neither you, nor Hosea, or any other wretched busybody can tell me otherwise. If I want to fuck Arthur, I’ll do it. And in case you’re dying from curiosity... yes, I have, and it’s a bliss you’ll never get to experience cause you’re also my boy and you’ll do whatever I goddamn tell you to do.” John swallowed several desperate breaths when the hold on his neck was loosened a bit, but the necessary leniency was made up for when Dutch pushed a leg between his thighs, sending a shiver down his spine. “If I tell you to rob a train, you’ll rob a train. If I tell you to bend over for me to fuck you up the arse, you’ll do that too.”

The look on John’s face must have betrayed his panic and Dutch must have read the unsaid ‘you wouldn’t!’ from his expression since he continued in the same confoundedly collected tone: “I don’t know, son, all these strange happenings are opening my mind to new possibilities…” A hand slipped from John’s waist to his groin, groping greedily. “I may just be in the mood for some experimentation.” John’s muffled moan was stifled when Dutch leant in and claimed his mouth in not an exactly passionate kiss but an act of violence, probing and biting until he was weak in the knees, a melting mess in Dutch’s arms. Moving downwards, Dutch ripped John’s small red neckerchief with his teeth and bit him viciously on the side of his throat, making John yelp in pain. When finally he pulled back, Dutch’s grin was positively demonic. John flinched at the sting of a light slap on his cheek and he could feel precum smearing into the fabric of his union suit when his prick was subjected to a protracted squeeze. Leaning in again, Dutch kissed him now almost lovingly on the lips before giving the tip of his nose a little lick and withdrawing completely. 

“Now be a good boy and go fuck yourself,” he purred, letting go and watching John fall to the ground, panting and disheveled. His eyes were fixed on Dutch who resumed a regal gait as he strode back towards the camp, speaking as he went: “You may sleep in the tent. I expect you’ll remember to behave...”


	4. L'Enfer obeit à ta voix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur’s POV. 
> 
> Minor npc death, blood play, physical abuse, rough sex, chilled alligators.
> 
> Overall pretty dark. Might not be for everyone!

“Ride with me, son.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command. Normally, Arthur would have obeyed without giving the order a second thought, yet nothing about the past week had been normal. This time he had to make a decision, and it occurred to him just how difficult it was for him to figure out how he truly felt about Dutch’s demands. Up until recently he mostly experienced a measure of joy when Dutch asked him to accomplish a task; it made him feel useful. In the present moment, numerous emotions spun into a tangled mess which he reckoned would take him years to unravel. One sentiment stood out, nevertheless, and that was fear… Which was precisely why he removed himself from the cot, observed Dutch’s dark silhouette framed in the triangular opening of the tent, and followed him to where the horses grazed. If it bothered him that his horse had already been saddled and bridled, he didn’t say anything.

Nor did he enquire where they were going and let his white Arabian trot after Dutch’s stallion at her own volition. Riding had been a great comfort in these past few days and the mare, who had always seemed a bit on the small size for his bulk, now appeared to be just the right height... Arthur bent forward and patted her affectionately on the neck, running his fingers through her soft mane. Apart from riding, hunting with Charles had helped him regain his confidence, as had helping Mrs Adler gut an entire O’Driscoll camp in exchange for a snug pair of boots… Overall, he was glad to realise he’d retained all his skills, and perhaps only needed to be careful not to engage in too many fist fights, though he itched to put that to test as well… He wasn’t sure how long he should wait before heading out in search of a ‘cure’, and hadn’t felt up to speaking with the other three bewitched gang members yet to hear their opinion. He had been hoping, against all odds, that the condition would just resolve itself after a period of time… On the plus side, his grasp on his new body had improved, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying his solitary sensual perusals, and more than once he’d surprised himself with the scenarios he came up with as frigging material… He didn’t feel the need anymore to have someone sleep in the tent with him, but hadn’t asked John to leave. The boy slept as quietly as a mouse and was strangely obliging, so much so that Arthur suspected he might be getting sweet on him, until he was disabused of the notion when a couple of nights ago John returned to the tent with a bruised mouth and a chewed neck, grumpy as a wet kitten. Who would have thought Abigail was such a hellcat in the sack, Arthur smirked to himself, shaking his head in amusement until he noticed they’d reached their destination.

Lagras.

He inhaled the damp warm evening air as he dismounted, hitching his horse alongside Dutch’s outside a shack on the environs of the village. He watched Dutch speak with a peculiar looking old woman, and for a moment was overcome by the hope that maybe Dutch had found a hoodoo witch who knew how to lift the hex. All such expectations were shattered, however, when on entering he witnessed nothing but a large bed, covered with invitingly plush cushions and blankets at odds with the run-down exterior of the shack. Several candles of different sizes and shapes burned at various corners, dimly illuminating the interior. In other words, a room meant to be rented for one purpose alone.

The old woman must have spied his dismay, judging by the toothless, knowing grin she flashed him just before leaving to receive her payment from Dutch who was still outside. Arthur stood with his back to the door, his eyes fixed on the leaping dance of two moths around the flitting light of a candle. He heard the door close shut, then the soft plop of a hat falling on the bed. The sound of Dutch’s footsteps on the creaking floor and the man’s deep, resonant hum as he approached him made every single hair on Arthur’s body stand on end. The sensation morphed into an entirely new one when he was embraced from behind, the force of Dutch’s impatience almost doubling him over. Arthur bit his lips not to gasp whilst he closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, brow furrowing as he took in the strong scent of cigar, soap, sweat, want... when the other man’s breath touched the skin of his tilted neck, tingling. 

His hat fell to the floor and he chuckled when a mustache tickled the curve of his ear, sensing Dutch pause, before continuing with more ardour, licking, biting, kissing his exposed neck, his burning hands traversing possessively over every inch of his body, enveloping his breasts, cradling his core, fingers massaging with expert dedication. Heat pooling in his lower abdomen, Arthur pushed back into Dutch’s hardening length, aching for more. His hands, until then held still at his sides, slipped over Dutch’s, urging him to quicken and intensify his delicious ministrations. The other man responded with an eager grunt before shrugging off Arthur’s hands and grabbing hold of his suspenders, pulling them asunder, next tearing the grey union suit open - he hadn’t bothered wearing a shirt - to reveal his chest and shoulders, along the curves of which he traced the tenderest of kisses, his hands returning to his breasts, fingers tweaking his taut nipples playfully.

“Mmmm… Dutch...” Arthur couldn’t hold back his moans and whimpers any longer, and let his hands reach back to clutch the fabric of Dutch’s shirt, pulling it out of his trousers. 

When Dutch’s hands moved to remove Arthur’s gun-belt, however, his heart came to a stop. He could feel all heat abandoning his body instantaneously and his blood froze. Involuntarily he moved to grab the hilt of his hunting knife just as the belt fell to the floor. 

“NO!” Arthur pushed Dutch back, turning to face him as he pressed the tip of the knife at the man’s sternum. 

Dutch looked dazed, as if awakened from a trance. It took him a moment to compose himself, and when he did he stood still as Arthur stepped back. He ran a hand through his hair, tucking a dark stray strand behind his ear. “What’s the matter, Arthur?” He didn’t seem at all pleased.

But neither did Arthur. If he’d been perplexed by his own sudden reaction, he forgot all about it when assailed by the memory of the agony he’d felt that first night, shivering and miserable as he hid in John’s tent, too frightened to even step out into the camp. 

“You could have waited...” he whispered from in-between clenched teeth, voice trembling in rage, blinking rapidly to hold back any impending tears.

The look of confusion in Dutch’s increasingly hardening gaze lasted only a few seconds. His smile just then looked incredibly ugly to Arthur who stood his ground when Dutch approached him, somehow looking even taller and larger. “Oh, my dear boy...” He surveyed Arthur with no doubt deliberately widened eyes, like he couldn’t possibly believe his naivety. “Do you want me to _court_ you?”

Arthur’s fury at that moment knew no bounds. Without a second thought, he pounced on Dutch, wielding the knife. He succeeded only in slashing the man’s vest and shirt when he dodged the attack and counteracted swiftly in an attempt to grab his hand, but Arthur was the quicker of the two and Dutch ended up gripping the blade, cursing as he did so but using the momentum to seize Arthur’s wrist with his other hand, squeezing until Arthur cried in pain and released the knife which fell on the floor with a resounding clang. Immediately Dutch turned Arthur around and secured him firmly, clasping both his wrists in his uninjured hand as he snaked the other about his waist. 

“You wanted me to wait…” Dutch murmured once Arthur had tired of thrashing and snarling like a feral animal, both panting heavily, “and wait… and wait… and wait…” Each ‘wait’ was marked by a doting kiss on top of Arthur’s head, “...like you did for Mary?”

Arthur felt all his resolve drain. He felt hollow. This was too much... much too cruel, even for Dutch... Not knowing whether he could suffer anymore blows, he was about to give in and let go to forever become a vacant marionette for Dutch to manoeuvre as he pleased, when he remembered the promise he had made himself. Using his remaining strength, he spared his captor’s shin a violent kick, the man’s howl music to his ears as he used the opportunity to free himself. 

“KNEEL!” Arthur roared, glaring at Dutch with the frenzy of a demon kicked out of hell. He slapped Dutch hard when he showed no reaction, and yelled once more: “Dutch, kneel!” 

The impression in Dutch’s eyes made him close his. What an end... Arthur waited patiently to be choked to death, but then there was a thud and he half-opened his eyes, the sight before him beyond his power of comprehension. Dutch was kneeling on the floor in front of him, gaze apathetic, waiting. Arthur was so staggered that he didn’t quite know what to do. The blossoming smile at the corner of Dutch’s lips nearly sent him into a panic. _He knew_. He tried to shake off the thought and ascertain what it was that he truly wished to do. He needed a plan...

“Don’t push yourself, son,” Dutch sighed, tending to the gash on his hand. He wasn’t even looking at Arthur anymore. “You wouldn’t know what to do with authority if it was handed to you on a silver plate.”

“Actually, Dutch,” Arthur began, grinning as inspiration hit him. “That gives me an idea… Remember the big house we went to rob, just the two of us, what five, six years ago?” He bent and picked up the hunting knife from the floor. “Remember that painting? The one with the woman with a tray in her hands…” He stood behind Dutch and grabbed hold of his black hair, pulling his head back to reveal his throat. “You said it was a replica of a famous masterpiece…” He positioned his slightly bent knee against the small of Dutch’s back and pushed forward gently, arching the man’s back further. “You remember what was on the tray? Reckon that’s what I’d like to do to you now...” Arthur paused a moment, gazing into Dutch’s darkened irises from above, before painting a thin shallow cut of about a few inches long below his Adam’s Apple with a steady hand. At the sight of blood seeping out, fiendish delight blazed in the blue-green orbs.

“In the end, the idea always comes from me, doesn’t it...” Dutch’s voice was strained, cracked, as if he was experiencing an either intense amount of pain or pleasure. 

“That’s fine, I suppose,” Arthur leant over the man and slowly licked the crimson trail on his throat, clutching his head back fast. “You can keep your _ideas_ …” He kissed the drying wound tentatively, relishing in the sound of Dutch’s sustained hiss. “You’ll need me to carry them out for you anyway…” 

He was lapping at the cut quite vigorously now and mewling in excitement when he was grabbed and pulled down onto Dutch’s lap, who strived to wrestle Arthur to the floor, but he slithered out of his arms and bolted out of the shack, racing past their horses, two pale ghosts swishing their tails to frog song. 

He could hear Dutch running behind him but didn’t look back until he was thigh-deep in the swamp, at which point he turned and examined Dutch who was standing on dry ground, marvelling no doubt at his son’s madness.

“What’s wrong, Pa?” He flashed Dutch a taunting grimace. “Afraid of a few lizards?” 

He hadn’t expected Dutch to be crazy enough to continue the pursuit in the alligator-infested waters, but apparently he had miscalculated the man’s tenacity, and so he was now wading deep into the swamp with only moonlight as his guide. It wasn’t an entirely pleasant experience, to say the least, and he nearly pissed himself when a snake swam through the space between his thighs. Unlucky for Arthur, his yelp of surprise gave away his position to Dutch who had fallen behind somewhat. Quickly he pulled himself onto a patch of land and was about to set off again when his foot got caught in something and he fell headfirst into a canopy of creeping ivy. He’d never been overcome with a similar level of trepidation as he did when, trying to untangle himself, he saw Dutch climb out of the swamp and pace in his direction, panther stalking prey. 

“Tsk, Miss Morgan,” Dutch knelt on the ground beside him. “How unfortunate...” He freed Arthur’s leg from the ivy but clasped his ankle tight, chuckling in arachnid joy as he pulled him towards him and bent over him, forcing his thighs open with his knees. “Can’t you see, I’m trying to help you, darling.” He kindly removed an ivy shoot from Arthur’s bare chest, letting his injured hand settle on his ribs. “The way you are now you’re more a liability to the gang than an asset,” he continued, observing Arthur with an expression that could be deemed paternal in any other situation. “I’m simply providing you with an opportunity to earn your keep...” 

Arthur pouted in mock-disillusionment as he wrapped his arms around Dutch’s shoulders and pulled himself up to bite the man savagely on the neck, drawing blood from the yet fresh slit. 

“You _bitch_!” Dutch bellowed, slapping him viciously, twice, with the back of his hand. 

Arthur’s head swam and his ears rang. Tasting copper in his mouth, he was too dizzy to prevent Dutch from pulling off his boots and trousers and ripping the union suit to near shreds. When Dutch penetrated him, he thought he heard a scream and wondered if it might be his own, but when he came to he realised the noise came from someone in a distance. A woman. Probably a victim of the Night Folk… Pain focused his attention on his own predicament, however, and he thought of trying to claw Dutch off himself but he was too exhausted at that point. 

“Slower…” Arthur pleaded without meaning to, and Dutch listened. He let his head incline backwards and closed his eyes, sensing Dutch’s hands grow kind when he peppered kisses on his brow, his eyes, the mark on his chin, the hollow of his neck, his armpit, his breasts, slowly circling his clit with his fingers as he gently moved inside him, jolts of pleasure coursing through his body. 

“I made you, Arthur…” He growled, palming his buttocks urgently, pulling him closer to sheathe himself more fully. “I can unmake you…” 

Arthur folded his legs around Dutch’s hips, gasping loudly when he changed the angle of his thrusts to graze a certain spot inside him repeatedly. 

“I can break you…” Dutch brushed his lips on Arthur’s, seeking out his tongue lovingly, adoringly. “And it won’t take much, son, trust me…” He pressed a cheek against Arthur’s, who had squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating purely on receiving pleasure. “Won’t you be my little whore?”

“Sure…” Arthur didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, lost as he was in the web of the contrast between the man’s merciless words and forgiving caresses. Even so, he was awake to the fact that at his response Dutch fell apart. He seemed no longer himself, evident in the way he clung to him for dear life as if they were drowning in an ocean, and Arthur dreaded he would be pulled down by the weight of the responsibility. The heat inside his belly doubled as he approached his climax, and he held on to Dutch just as fiercely, his cunt clenching around his girth, craving all of him... 

A whine and a rustle escaped the bushes nearby. Suddenly Arthur was pushed even further into the ivy carpet with Dutch hunched over him protectively. They’d both reached for their guns simultaneously, but Arthur had left his in the shack. Dutch’s Schofield, cocked, was already pointed at the bush as he cautioned: “Get out or I’ll shoot.” 

“Hey fellers!” 

It was an old man, dressed in a half-done overall, his stiff prick hanging in his hand. 

“Just came to warn you, I swear!” He grinned, holding his hands up. “See, the Night Folk...They’re on my property and I’ve been camping nearby… There was a scream, went off to see what it was that made it and it were them… They’d got her good, poor woman. Hung on a tree by now, no doubt... You’ve ever seen them corpses on the trees? It’s their work, bad business… Devil’s work… Now you need to keep it down. And look out for them gators-”

“Get rid of him, Dutch,” Arthur whispered, touching Dutch’s bicep, repeating the command when he shifted his gaze towards him: “Kill him.” 

There was a tint of hesitant pride in Dutch’s eyes before they changed expression, waxing infernal. 

“Mighty kind of you, friend,” Dutch sat up and holstered his pistol. “How about I thank you for your warning, with a little...offering?”

The old man’s mouth salivated when he followed Dutch’s glance to rest on a nearly naked Arthur. Without hesitation he crept towards Arthur, whose eyebrows knitted in worry when Dutch remained motionless, eyeing him coldly. Scarcely had the old man clambered on top of him, however, when his eyes bulged out, his neck yanked back in the grip of a pair of ringed hands which proceeded to push him down into the mud. 

Still a bit startled, Arthur studied Dutch as he strangled the flailing man at his leisure, shoulders arched, head bent, silent, all-powerful. He could see why Dutch liked to watch when he beat fellows. Eventually he crawled and sat next to him, reaching for his penis and stroking it with a devoted persistence that prompted him to purr like a predator devouring a most delectable chunk of flesh. His green eyes trained on the old man’s purpling face, Arthur timed his pulls perfectly to allow Dutch to spill his seed on the lifeless body of his prey the moment he relinquished his soul. 

Arthur waited for Dutch’s breathing to even before uncoiling his fingers from round his cock and kissing the corner of his mouth, murmuring fondly: “Who’ll break whom, I wonder…”


	5. Bachus war ein braver Mann!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uncle’s POV.
> 
> Party. Voyeurism...

Ain’t life a two-faced hussy! One moment you’re living your life, freeloading and boozing and wanking cheerfully and then, poof, your pecker’s a gone! The one thing that never changes is lumbago… Lumbago you can depend upon… Constant companion in times of joy and misery… But now was time for joy! There was a party and no work to dodge. HURRaY! 

Uncle didn’t know, however, that on that same night he would witness many things… Things he shouldn’t have seen… Things he wished he hadn’t seen… Things he wished he could see more of… 

Anyway!

It had been about ten days since Uncle and the other three had returned to the camp after their little adventure in Ambarino. Life had remained much the same for Uncle. Grimshaw was over the moon, while Williamson and Morgan were their usual sour-faced selves, until late afternoon that same day when along with Karen and Lenny they supplied the money box with a hefty sum, courtesy of the Bank of Valentine. Dutch, as expected, was ecstatic and declared that they should celebrate. 

Dutch’s pre-party speech was boring as always, and Uncle regrettably didn’t manage to slip away halfway through, so consoled himself with a bottle of beer or two. 

“And so we drink tonight to the health of Miss Jones and her three accomplices!”

“Amen!” Uncle pretended he didn’t see Dutch’s warning glare.

With his speech over, Dutch wound the phonograph and invited Molly to a dance. She readily obliged, the pair of them swinging cheek to cheek like the lovebirds they had been for the past couple of days, like they hadn’t been screaming each other’s heads off only a week before… Almost immediately Grimshaw requested a dance from Tilly, which made Uncle feel sorry for Karen who looked like she would have wanted to be asked. But she didn’t back down and requested a baffled Arthur to dance with her. Arthur dithered a bit, then smiled bashfully, tossed off her hat and pulled Karen into her arms. The girls didn’t seem to be taking their dance too seriously, making over-exaggerated flares and prancing about like giddy pronghorns. The other two couple were a different story, however. It was pretty fun witnessing the obvious rivalry between Dutch and Grimshaw. The competition got more and more intense until other gang members stopped what they were doing and watched them in awe as they put their best moves on show. In Uncle’s humble opinion, Grimshaw was the superior dancer, but woe be unto him if he ever shared that opinion with anyone...

“Granny Uncle! Can I have more candy please?” 

“Why hello, Jack!” Uncle grinned at the little boy, fishing out a few bonbons from his pocket and handing it to him. “What mischief have you been up to?”

“No mischief,” the boy promised.

“What’s that you got there?” Uncle noticed he was holding a flower necklace.

“I made it for Uncle Arthur, but she wouldn’t wear it.”

“Aww, why don’t you give it to your Ma?”

“She has one already… and I made one for Cain too, but he ate it...” 

“Why then I’ll wear it!” To the boy’s delight, Uncle took the flower necklace and put it on top of his grey curly hair like a crown. “Now I’m the queen of the party!” 

“Quite a charmer, aren’t ye?”

Uncle’s attention was diverted to the dancers once more by MacGuire’s comment. Dutch and Molly were gone, and Grimshaw was now dancing a slow waltz with Mary-Beth. 

“Gonna keep all the girls to yourself tonight, eh Grim?” Sean prodded again.

“Watch carefully, boy, you might learn a thing or two,” Grimshaw smiled a striking smile, Mary-Beth blushing in his arms.

“Think you can teach _me_ something, now?” 

“Oh, you bet I can, Mr MacGuire! I flatter myself to know a thing or two about pleasing women, after all.” Grimshaw winked at Sean, his gaze shifting to Karen. “I might even spare you some advice if you ask nicely.”

A laughing Uncle was again distracted, this time by the sound of a BANG when Trelawney did his vanishing trick. Only the trick worked too well and Trelawney disappeared for the rest of the night, not to been seen again until next morning...

Shrugging, Uncle went to fetch himself more liquor when he was assailed by a panicking Williamson.

“I ain’t well, old man! I need help!”

“Wha…”

Before Uncle had a chance to respond, Bill let go of him and grasped the Reverend’s preaching bands, shouting in the poor man’s ear: “You’re some sort of doctor, aren’t you?” 

“I wouldn’t go as far as to-”

“Don’t matter, you must help me!”

Out of curiosity, Uncle followed Williamson as she pulled Swanson all the way up to the deserted scout’s camp. 

“See, I think… I’ve got my…” The look on Bill’s face betrayed her agony when she whispered: “... monthly…”

Uncle couldn’t catch the guffaw before it left his mouth, but thankfully Bill was too ruffled to pay him much mind.

“And what… can I do for you, Mr Williamson?” The poor Reverend was befuddled. 

“It’s excruciating!” Bill moaned, clutching her belly. “The pain won’t stop and it’s everywhere! In my legs, my back...”

“I’ll bring you some morphine, Mr Williamson, just wait here a moment…”

“And rags…” Bill mumbled. “I used a shirt but not sure how long it’ll last the way things are going...”

“Ah… hmm, right!”

Uncle watched poor Swanson scurry away and shook his head, turning to Bill with a sigh: “Well… At least you can rest easy knowing you ain’t expecting!”

“Oh, shut up!” Williamson barked. “Why are you even here? Get lost!”

“Okay, okay!” Uncle raised his hands, chuckling as he backed away. 

He was thanking his gods he’d passed the age for having such troubles when next to a lonesome tree hanging over the lake he spied Grimshaw in a tête-à-tête with Miss O’Shea. Again, purely out of curiosity, Uncle approached them, quietly so as not to be seen, and overheard Grimshaw telling Molly how he’d always thought of her as a precious girl, and how he thought she deserved better than Dutch... Sadly, Uncle didn’t get to hear Molly’s response, since just then Escuella began playing the guitar and the pair left to unite with the rest of the merrymakers.

Karen had joined Javier in his song by the time Uncle arrived at the campfire. He perched by the fire for a while, switching to whiskey now, then started singing and was shooed away for interrupting a beautiful duet. 

“Fine!” Uncle huffed indignantly as he left the group of youngsters and joined Arthur who was sitting at the round table by John’s tent, drinking alone. 

“So, Morgan,” he addressed the young woman. “What are you going to do?”

“About what?” 

“When are you going to go out there find us a way to remove the curse? We don’t wanna stay stuck like this forever…”

“Oh, but maybe Morgan does…” It was Micah, swaggering in their direction, looking even more pleased with himself than usual. He sat at the table on Arthur’s other side and sniggered. “She’s got Daddy Dutch all over her now, like she always wanted.”

“Now, now… that’s a bit too much,” Uncle intervened. 

“What, old hag, didn’t you hear them screwing in the boss’s tent?” Micah poured himself some rum. “Guess it’s cause you were one of them folk being _interviewed_ yourself...”

Uncle’s eyes were big as saucers as he stared at Arthur, waiting for her to pounce on Bell, but she just looked tired, or sad, or both, and didn’t even bother responding. 

“Awww, what is it now… got ditched already? Don’t worry, doll, maybe I’ll let you be my woman... I’ll treat you goood…”

“Oh, I’m dying of joy…” Morgan kept staring as her drink. 

Micah seemed irritated by her lack of reaction and continued niggling her: “Or are you too scared? Heard you asked Marston to sleep in the tent for fear of big bad wolfie jumping you.” He snapped his teeth a few times in emphasis. 

“ _What?_ ” 

“Think about it Morgan,” Micah continued, gleeful to have gained a sliver of attention. “Is it really fear or could it be… _desire_?” 

“Who told you I was scared?” Morgan was now looking at Bell, trying to remain calm though obviously irked. 

“That’s enough, Mr Bell,” Abigail joined in. “Get off Arthur’s back, he’s had enough already. Come, Arthur... ” She held Morgan by the arm and whispered something in her ear. They both left soon after. 

Bell was gone shortly as well, leaving Uncle no choice but to finish the whiskey and the rum on his own...

Uncle woke up some time later under the table to the sound of music. The mood was much more relaxed now, with Charles playing the harmonica and Pearson the accordion alternately, people mostly lounging on the ground or talking in hushed tones. Uncle badly needed to take a piss so he made his way towards the woods beyond the chicken coup, squatted and was about to let go when he heard someone whining. 

Peeking out of the bushes, he saw Marston, clearly wasted, standing way too close to Dutch, who was leaning against a tree, a cigar suspended between his index and middle fingers. 

“Why’d you kiss me, Dutch?” John cried, as in wept, tugging at the man’s collar. 

The big boss remained silent, observing Marston with the same look a punter had when appraising the goods in a brothel. 

Oh boy… Uncle decided he would be in too great a trouble if he got caught peeping at this particular scene and made a hasty departure.

Quickly he relieved himself behind a rock and returned to the now lively camp. Almost everyone had gathered around a table where Lenny and Sadie were playing five finger fillet. 

“Care to place a bet?” Strauss addressed him, holding up a notebook. “The odds are 4:1 in favour of Mrs Adler.”

“Lemme get my money…”

Uncle had no money, of course, so he tried to mooch some off Duffy, who also turned out to be penniless. And so he grabbed a bottle of moonshine from Charles’s tent and set off towards a capsized boat some distance away from the camp for some quality me-time. He settled comfortably on the inner side of the boat and stared at the lovely night sky… Ahhhh, ain’t life- 

“Oooh, right there, that’s it… feels so good, nnngh...” 

Uncle recognised Sean’s lilt, though he couldn’t remember ever having heard the boy moan like that...

“Here, you try now...”

And that was Grimshaw, speaking with someone who turned out to be Karen.

“So I just put my fingers in like this… and twist like this?” 

“You’re killin’ me, girl!” 

Sean again, this time keening continuously...

“Oh hush, and here I thought _you_ were gonna learn how to pleasure _me_!”

“Don’t worry, dear, we’ll get to that too…” 

“Wow, Grim, you wanna take care of that first?” Karen voiced, giggling. “Your pants is bursting!”

Now, Uncle simply _had_ to take a look! Even if just a tiny peek through the hole at the bottom of the boat... And he wasn’t disappointed. Jesus, the man was well-endowed!

“So, you wanna fuck me…” Karen glanced mischievously at a naked Sean who was on all fours, arse up in the air. “Or him?”

MacGuire must have sensed Grimshaw’s interest when he quickly blurted out: “Hold your horses now, yours truly’s never been fucked before!”

“Well, Mr MacGuire,” Grimshaw intoned with an amused smile, “one has to receive to truly learn how to give...”

“Promise it won’t hurt?”

“Come on, Sean, you’ll never know until you try!” Karen challenged MacGuire with a wicked grin.

“Oh what the hell, let’s have a go then!” Sean resumed his previous position. “Go easy on me, old girl.”

Grimshaw instructed Karen to get more oil and rob it on his already erect member, which she did avidly, while he himself fingered Sean a bit more, stretching his already slick opening until it was pink and puffy. Yes, Uncle had a very good eyesight... The boy didn’t stop squirming and whimpering until Grimshaw had held the head of his cock at his entrance. He was extremely careful when pushing in, repeatedly asking Sean to let him know if he needed a break. Absorbed in experiencing new sensations, MacGuire kept shaking his head in the negative, though Uncle could see how his body tensed sometimes. 

“Oh fuck…”

“Oh fuck…”

“Oh fuck…”

The three of them gasped in near unison once Grimshaw’s thick length was fully lodged in - Sean from the fullness, no doubt, Grimshaw from sheer gratification, and Karen from the view. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Grimshaw asked Sean in a motherly tone that contrasted with his deep voice. When MacGuire nodded, he started moving carefully, drawing out further moans and sighs from the boy. Karen soothed his quivering body with gentle caresses on his shoulders and rump all the while, cooing sweet nothings in his ear.

“You like it, boy?” Grimshaw grunted and Karen mewled as she slipped her hand beneath her skirts, until prompted by Grimshaw to come closer so that he could take over the delicious task while they made out passionately. With his other hand Grimshaw freed Karen’s voluptuous breasts from the confines of her bodice and palmed them softly, playing with her nipples, his strong buttocks flexing as his cock pistoned into Sean’s now pliant hole. “Touch yourself boy!”

“... hnn.. already am!” Sean groaned, wincing as he was suddenly deprived of his main source of pleasure.

Grimshaw stretched on the ground on his back and motioned at the boy: “Ride me, Mr MacGuire!”

Sean spared no time impaling himself and was soon bouncing off Grimshaw’s cock in a frenzy, his fiery-red tresses plastered to his forehead, his almost hairless chest glistening under the moonlight. Karen took the initiative and, hitching her skirts up, positioned herself on Grimshaw’s mouth. Uncle couldn’t see Grimshaw’s reaction, but from Karen’s recurrent ‘oooooooh’s, he reckoned the man must be doing something right...

“I love you, Sean!” Karen wailed, pulling on her lover’s prick, with a panting Sean responding immediately: “Love you too, baby!” They’d just began kissing heatedly when Sean climaxed, followed by Karen. Grimshaw was last, the gentleman that he was. But the loudest of them all was Uncle who came with a high-pitched, self-revealing squeal. 

“Don’t mind an old woman, hehe... Just minding my own business, as usual...”


	6. Posatevi, occhi ladri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dutch’s POV. 
> 
> Soft(ish) Dutch. Sleepy Arthur. Somnophilia.

_The Sphinx is drowsy,_  
_The wings are furled;_  
_Her ear is heavy,_  
_She broods on the world_ … 

He couldn’t recall the remainder of Emerson’s poem, but the first four lines came to him easily as he observed the reposing figure before him. Dutch had always liked watching Arthur sleep; there was a certain pleasure in studying power in its dormant form, bound in mortal confines, rising and falling in tranquil rhythms... He sighed, remembering how he had promised himself to keep a distance from Arthur after the night in the swamp. He had kept the promise in the days that followed, not because he wished to punish Arthur for presuming she had any power over him; rather, he felt somewhat affected by his own lack of self-restraint during that particular episode. Dutch did not like to lose control. Least of all, of his own actions. 

And yet, that morning, the minutest flutter in the flaps of John’s tent prompted him to put his cigar out and slip inside. John was nowhere to be seen, and Dutch reckoned he must have passed out somewhere following last night’s revelries. He had not imbibed as much himself, as usual preferring to remain alert, and so he was the first person to wake. A brisk walk in the cool dawn air refreshed him, and he returned to the camp finding it in the same state with not a soul stirring, except for the tantalising textile agitation mentioned earlier…

A serene smile sat on the corner of his lips as he watched Arthur’s face turn in his direction, revealing her darling countenance. The gentlest of tremors possessed her closed eyelids, messy hair covering thick eyebrows knitted angrily even as she slept, mouth half-open, moist. Dutch’s smile morphed into a bitter grimace when a pang of self-hatred clutched at his chest from within at the memory of how he had so callously spurned her in the past couple of days, not speaking to her unless absolutely necessary, and then only in monosyllables… In a material demonstration of remorse, he approached the cot and knelt at its side, reaching to take hold of her inert hand hanging listlessly from the side of the bed, and fell to kissing, kissing, kissing her little fingertips, one by one, brushing his lips against her knuckles, pressing his cheek against the cool hollow of her palm… He couldn’t help but chuckle when he detected the fragrance of her sex on her fingers. The little minx must have been at it all night, he reflected, the thought sending compelling signals to his groin as he allowed himself a lick to savour the sour-sweet remnants, just making sure... Roused by the irresistible taste, he shifted the tender homages to her wrist, placing reverent kisses on the blue outline of her beating pulse, which he traced with his tongue, then teeth as he slid yet further up until his mouth rested against the soft inner arch of her elbow. Nibbling as he purred in delight, his hunger soared with every palpitation he counted beneath the pressure of his fingers clasping her wrist. His other hand, in the meanwhile, moved under the blanket to unbutton her union suit.

“Mmmm… lem... sleep… utch…”

“How did you know it was me?” He inserted his hand inside her red union suit, letting it glide gently over her breasts and the contours of her belly, while leaning to nip her on the cushion of her palm. She tried to push his head away with a lethargic shove but he persisted and her fingers slipped among his hair. “Could have been John…” 

He closed his eyes to take in the exquisite pleasure when her fingers, tangled in his locks, tugged sharply in response to the remark. 

“Speaking of which...” He removed the blanket from top of her and cast it to the floor. “Your guard dog isn’t doing a very good job.”

She was looking at him now, through sleep-laden eyes, shining moist-blue. She must be feeling generous, Dutch surmised, smiling to himself. He had come up with the theory that Arthur’s eyes changed colour through a spectrum from blue to green depending on their owner’s mood, with pure blue signifying a compassionate state of mind and green the exact opposite. Hosea thought his theory was nonsensical, but he liked to believe it anyway; it allowed him to nurse the claim that he had a deeper level of understanding over their son. 

“What time is it?” 

“Hmm, I don’t know…” Dutch let go of Arthur’s hand and proceeded to open the rest of her buttons, not particularly caring to answer the mundane question. Once all buttons were undone, he got up from the floor and sat on the cot next to her, a deep hum reverberating in his chest as his hand felt its way through the placid plains of her body to rest between her legs, fingers tangling in blonde curls as he cupped her cunt, the delicious sensation paralleled in the maddening ache in his cock. He inclined his head to kiss her parted lips, inhaling her sighs of either protest or satisfaction... Dutch let a few minutes of attentive ministration to pass by before pushing his middle finger slowly inside Arthur's entrance, his thumb grazing her clitoris faintly. Sensing her growing arousal, he broke the kiss to look her in the eyes, drinking in every nuance of her euphoric expression. In languid defiance, she twisted her face away from him when she spied him looking at her, but his smile widened when she lifted a hand to twirl two digits around the chain of his pocket-watch, pulling. 

“Kiss me, Arthur…” He whispered, giving the shell of her ear an affectionate lick. 

She looked cross when she turned to glare at him, a hint of green creeping into the blue, though she obeyed, planting a coy peck on the side of his mustache. Dutch raised a dark eyebrow and shook his head slowly in the negative. Arthur stared at him a while, her gaze softening as he increased his finger’s pace a tiny bit. Eventually a timid hand crawled along his shoulder to rest on the back of his neck, pulling him close. Dutch felt transported with immeasurable bliss the moment she placed her plush lips on his, with the same amount of caution he’d seen Arthur exercise a million times before when exploring a venue they were planning to rob. It took him all his willpower to remain passive when her shy tongue sneaked through his mouth, electrifying, leaving him a perfect wreck of his ideal self... He rewarded himself for his endurance by devouring the moans that spilled from her succulent mouth when he pressed his thumb against her clit with more urgency, introducing a second finger into her slick passage. 

It didn’t help his resolve to remain calm at all when a mischievous hand found its way to his crotch and began massaging his bursting stiffness. Arthur whimpered in disappointment when Dutch removed his fingers from her tight heat to push her hand away from his cock, pinning her wrist to the bed. His mouth now abandoned hers to caress her breasts, one after the other, possessive tongue circling her erect nipples, groaning in appreciation of the attractive texture. His focus then moved to her lower abdomen and downwards still, until he slipped to the ground entirely, repositioning her so that her splayed thighs stayed on the edge of the cot, providing him with full access to her core. He spread her glistening folds apart with two fingers first, taking in the view, a yearning growl escaping his throat as in the dim light of the tent he surveyed her swollen clitoris and quivering opening, which he was soon lapping at hungrily: sweet cinnamon, bitter orange, copper and sea salt….

“Mhmmm....”

He inhaled sharply in response to Arthur’s languorous moan, itself a reaction to his thrusting two fingers back in. Curling his steadily moving digits upwards, Dutch hummed as he gently sucked her clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive nub. He could feel her impending climax and waited until she was nigh coming when he withdrew his mouth and stilled his fingers, grinning roguishly as he licked his lips. 

“Tell me what you want,” He murmured when she remained silent, stubbornly observing him through narrowed eyes. 

When after a few seconds she still didn’t respond, he abruptly pulled his fingers out of her twitching cunt, relishing the look of deprivation in her expression. 

“What do you want, Arthur?” He bit the soft inner side of her thigh none too gently.

“I want to feel you inside...” 

“Which part of me, hmm? Be precise, boy.”

“Your fucking cock, Dutch!” She whined angrily, clutching at a pillow with her hand as she turned her head away.

“I’m afraid I’m not going to do that,” Dutch laughed softly, brushing the pad of his thumb on the marked flesh. He wanted nothing better than to drag Arthur to the ground and fuck the brat out of her until she begged for his mercy. _Patience_... 

“Why do you ask then? You’ll do your own thing anyway...” 

“Because, Arthur, I take pleasure in denying you what you want.” He bent to kiss the throbbing mark, and fuelled by her exasperation he sank his tongue inside her to fuck her depth with animate precision, eliciting fresh, wanton mewls. She yelped when he suddenly replaced his tongue with three fingers and wrapped her thighs around his shoulders in response, squeezing. Dutch thought he might tease her again, but decided against it in the end, and resumed licking her clitoris and its environs in a leisurely tempo. This time, when she verged her peak, he leant back, not to torment her, but to give himself an opportunity for visual gratification, and so continued rolling the rosy pearl between the thumb and index finger of his unoccupied hand.

She came with her eyes closed, mouthing his name quietly, which gave him immense satisfaction, especially as he assumed she must have been unaware that he was watching her. 

“Arthur…”

“Hmmmm...” 

“I want you to do something...” Dutch spoke gently, captivated by the quiet beauty of her ecstatic articulation. He moved his fingers to her mouth to let her taste her own flavour, hissing when her tongue slithered about his soaked rings. “Draw a portrait of yourself for me.” He readjusted her once more sleepy limbs on the cot, kissing her pleasure-pink cheeks.

“Why?” 

“Because I asked you to.” He was rather taken aback by the question, which showed in his cooling gaze as he lay down next to her, forcing her to shift to the edge of the cot.

“No.”

“May I know the reason why?” 

“You won’t need it, Dutch,” Arthur yawned, curling on her side with her back turned towards him, her rear situated against his length tortuously. She reached behind as if in an afterthought to take hold of his hand and pull his arm around her, entwining their fingers. “I’ve been by at your side twenty years now, you’ve never kept a lover’s picture. This’ll lose its novelty too… sentimental in your old age...”

Dutch listened to Arthur muttering the latter words and decided he liked her better when she slept... Lifting their interwoven fingers up to his mouth, he placed a perfunctory kiss on the palm of her hand before unlacing their fingers, standing up and leaving the tent without looking back. 

“Miss O’Shea,” Dutch’s voice echoed in the tent he shared with Molly. 

“Yes, Dutch?” She opened her eyes, wincing as they took in the flood of light invading through the opened flaps.

“Come, my dear, there is an excellent restaurant in Saint Denis I’d like to take you to…”

A couple of hours later, Dutch ejaculated in Molly’s mouth thinking of John. He should do something about the boy. John had approached him last night a needy mess, and out of pity he’d kissed him and allowed the boy to paw at him and rut against his leg like a dog in heat before getting bored and pushing him off. Perhaps if he’d been in a better mood, he would have been tempted to take things further... There was something about John’s clinginess that tickled Dutch in the right places... He’d always been fond of John, even more so than of Arthur, who, although eager to please and the more extroverted of the two, harboured a secretive quality, an opaque complexity... It made Dutch wonder sometimes if Arthur would betray him one day... John, on the other hand, was an open book. An open children’s book, to be exact. Dutch hadn’t worried even when he disappeared for a year, or had it been two? He’d known the boy would return, and he had. In the end, John was a familial creature, reflected in his choice to bed a girl who was a gang member; whereas Arthur’s love interests had always been outsiders, Mary being a perfect example of an aspiration for something beyond a life Dutch could deliver… He’d raised Arthur a romantic, a mistake he had been careful not to repeat with John...

“I swallowed, Dutch…” 

Perched on her knees on the lavish carpet of the fancy hotel room, Molly was staring up at him with hopeful eyes, waiting to be praised.

“Good girl...” He patted her cheek warmly. “Did you get yourself off like I asked you to?”

“Yes, Dutch.”

“Very good,” Dutch intoned, smiling. Miss O’Shea was quite a gem when obedient. “Now are you hungry enough for lunch or has your appetite been sated already?” Seeing her blush, he laughed and pulled her up to his lap, kissing her temple. “After lunch I’ll buy you that brooch you wanted…”

It was early evening once they’d returned to the camp and Dutch was surprised to discover Hosea in his tent.

“We need to talk.”

“Miss O’Shea,” Dutch removed Molly's arm from his. “Would you give us a moment, please?”

“Of course, Dutch.”

Dutch closed the tent flaps and sat on the cot next to Hosea, waiting for him to begin.

“I found the hut they were talking about,” Hosea explained, calmly. “There was a boiling pot inside alright… I camped there for a night and a day and searched the vicinity, but couldn’t find the owner... I took as much of the brew as I could carry and left for Wapiti, hoping to find some answers. The shaman didn’t know anything about witchcraft, but he had some interesting insight, and recommendations about who I should consult.” Hosea’s sober gaze was fixed on him all the time he spoke. “I’ve talked to a few people, Dutch, and I think we can manage to remove the magic’s effect. Though, I have to speak with some more folk to be sure, and do a few tests…”

Dutch remained motionless for a moment but nodded eventually. Even though the news was far from pleasant to his ears, he decided he should at least feign concern: “Are you sure there are no dangers?” 

“I know how obsessed you get when you want something badly, Dutch. But our son’s happiness is at stake. Arthur’s happiness...” Hosea placed a gentle hand on his, which made him flinch. Last time they’d met the same hand was pointing a gun at his face. “I don’t know how that… indecency came about, and whether Arthur had any hand in initiating it, and frankly I rather not think about it. But you… we must think about what’s good for _him_. I’ve told you before, in a different context, our boys are off limits...”

As usual, Hosea had seen straight through him. Dutch didn’t appreciate his friend’s warning tone, but he couldn’t argue with his reasoning without betraying a vested interest. He wished Hosea had been aggressive in his approach rather than so infuriatingly diplomatic, in which case he could have at least found an excuse to rage and defend himself… At the same time, he was acutely aware just how much he valued Hosea’s companionship and he didn’t want to distance him any further. Although he would never admit it out loud, the old man’s prolonged absence had troubled him considerably.

“Very well, old friend, just make sure you’ll test on some animal or something first before you turn Arthur into a toad…” Dutch sighed. He moved to light a cigar before remembering he shouldn’t smoke in front of Hosea, so he let it loll between his fingers idly. “And expect some resistance from some of the afflicted...”

“Oh?”

“Haven’t you seen Grimshaw?” The corner of Dutch’s mouth raised into a devilish smirk, if a bit subdued. 

“No, I’ve just arrived.”

“Well, I’ll tell you all about it once you’ve had some rest.”

“Sure, Dutch.” Hosea got up, eyeing the unlit cigar. “We’ll catch up later...”

Dutch bid Hosea farewell with a flick of his index finger before lying on his back on the cot, lighting the cigar and taking a long drag. The more he thought about it, the less he wanted Arthur to turn back into her previous self. She’d more than demonstrated her effectiveness with the recent heist and he saw no reason why he should let her change back when he was taking so much delight in her present form. _Obsessively_ , Hosea had put it, and perhaps he was right. Dutch hadn’t wanted something so terribly for years... Now that after the tobacco farm incident and the horse theft job they had both Braithwaites and Grays in their pockets - and the Pinkertons seemed to have lost their trail - he felt he could unwind if only a little and enjoy what life had to offer him… He would let Hosea do his experiments, Dutch determined, it might even ease Arthur’s mind a bit, leaving her more open to his advances… Still, he needed to find a way to stop the tests from being too successful…

Dutch racked his brain for a while, and unable to come up with any solutions he decided to go for a walk. On his way to the water's outline, he came across Jack playing with Cain. Abigail watched them with peaceful resignation. He studied the three for a while, his head tilted slightly to the right, until slowly his lips curved into a smile. He patted jack on the head, ruffling his hair, as thanks for his unknowingly acting as an inspiration for a plan, then set off on a northward trail by the lakeshore.

Hosea would never let Arthur drink an antidote if she was carrying a child... If Micah was to be believed, Williamson was menstruating, so the function should be there... The only impediment was that throughout the past couple of decades Dutch had come to suspect he might not be able to sire children. None of his partners had ever got pregnant, and he couldn’t take the risk of further investigation at this point, which meant he needed someone else to step up… Naturally, his first choice was John, who had proven himself to be capable - unless Jack wasn’t truly his and Abigail had hoisted the responsibility on him because among the people she’d fucked John was the most malleable, and let’s be fair, handsome… Nevertheless, given the lack of time, the boy would have to do... Arthur liked John, and probably wouldn’t have the courage to break his heart… But he would have to prepare the boy first. He couldn’t tell John not to touch Arthur one day and ask him to breed her the next. It would set a bad precedence, and that was the last thing Dutch needed… Of course, to prepare John, he would have to send Arthur away for a few days... 

“Dutch.”

“Charles!” He appraised the man, who was apparently on guard duty. “Just the man I was looking for. I have a job for you and Arthur...”


	7. Jurons de rester amis!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s POV.
> 
> Dutch takes John fishing...

John was a mess. He’d never regretted returning to the gang so much as he did now… _THUD_ … He’d fought with Abigail again and she had stopped talking to him altogether… _THUD_ … As if Abigail’s wrath wasn’t enough to make life hell, Hosea was constantly on his back too, asking questions, mostly about Arthur and their damned sleeping arrangement… _THUD_ … Arthur, on the other hand, wouldn’t stop frigging every night, and he could swear he had heard him call out Mary a few times… _THUD_ … And Dutch… _THUD_ … Well, John had a notion he’d made a fool of himself again and done something on the night of the party to make Dutch canoodle him one moment and knock him to the ground the next…

“Careful, Marston, don’t split your foot in two…”

“I AM careful, damnit!” 

“Woah… Okay, didn’t mean anything by it…”

He hadn’t meant to snap at Javier like that, but at that instant he felt like an old rickety house falling to pieces from the pressure of the many emotions haunting his unsteady structure… After a final swing, John leant the ax next to the tree stump and took an armful of firewood to the campfire. Dropping the load on the ground next to the pit, he stood still, not knowing what he should do next, when his eyes caught sight of an open newspaper draped on a log. He picked it up and and slowly began reading:

 _The Bank of Valentine has been robbed by an outlaw gang thought to be responsible for several recent holdups and a spate of violence. The bank’s manager was distracted by not one but three female culprits, one of whom is believed to be the long-lost sister of notorious thief and killer, Arthur Morgan. According to unknown sources, having recently escaped the clutches of the Del Lobos in New Austin, Miss Morgan has reunited with her brother to exact vengeance on Leviticus Cornwall, believed to be responsible for the loss of the Morgan family fortune and the life of the outlaw siblings’ parents. The Morgans are said to be descendants of an ancient aristocratic family in..._

“Pa, will you fix my horse?”

“ _What_ did you call me!?”

Oh shit… He figured belatedly that, while trying to digest the mind-numbing load of crap written in the gazette, he’d barked at Jack like a rabid dog. Seeing the little boy’s quivering bottom lip broke John’s heart. _You fucking idiot_...

“Jack, look, I didn’t-”

“Come here, Jack! We’ll ask Uncle Hosea to fix your toy.”

Before John had a chance to mumble an apology, Abigail hauled the boy away without even looking at him, leaving John more miserable than he’d been half an hour ago. The disapproving glances of the few gang members in the vicinity made him shrink away in shame, though not in time to escape Grimshaw’s clutches. 

“That’s no way to talk to a little boy, Mr Marston!”

“Now, now, Susan... I’m sure John didn’t mean any harm. Did you, son?”

If Susan’s reproach had made him uneasy, hearing Dutch’s voice made John shudder in his boots, especially as he sensed the man approaching him from behind. Dutch placed a hand on his left shoulder. 

“Well, I hope that’s how it is, Mr Marston. The boy looks up to you as a father, even if you don’t deserve to be one...” 

In spite of the chastening lecture, John wished with all his heart that Grimshaw wouldn’t leave, but she did. At the same time, Dutch stepped closer until he was standing next to him. 

“I fear I was a little harsh on you the other night,” Dutch whispered to him in an uncharacteristically gentle tone which sent shivers down his spine. “I’d like to make it up to you.”

John could feel his ears burning, as if touched by the devil. Shrugging Dutch’s hand off his shoulder, he turned around to face the man. His throat went dry the moment his eyes met Dutch’s predatory gaze. His voice, when he responded, came out all wrong, high-pitched and slightly shaky: “That’s not necessary, Dutch…”

“How about you and I go fishing?” Dutch spoke out loud, pushing his chest out as he completely ignored John’s answer. “Come, son, just the two of us.”

All his senses screamed at John to decline the invitation, if he had a say in the matter, that is. He had no idea what Dutch was up to, but whatever it was it couldn’t be anything good. At the same time, he was itching to get away from the camp, from Abigail, from Jack, from the blaming eyes… And he’d been meaning to ask Dutch where Arthur and Charles had gone off to… But in the end, what made him make up his mind was seeing Dutch take a step back, as if he had taken John’s silence as a refusal…

“Why not?” John said hurriedly, hating how eager he’d sounded.

“Capital!” Dutch smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder again, almost pushing him towards the jetty situated behind his tent. “I’ve _borrowed_ a charming little boat that we can use…”

John stopped dead in his tracks. “Boat?” He looked at Dutch with widened eyes, wondering if after all these years the man still didn’t know he couldn’t swim. “Can’t we just fish along the-”

“No, son, I know just the spot, and it happens to be in the middle of lake.”

The indentation of Dutch’s now unclenched hand ached on his shoulder as he watched the man stride towards the vessel in question and untie the rope binding it to the small pier. 

“What’s wrong, Marston? You a cat or something? Figures why you’re always so greasy…”

Micah, leering, was leaning against Arthur’s wagon, cleaning his nails with a knife. 

“You’re one to talk!”

“I use _pomade_ , cowpoke. You even know what that is?”

Before John could respond, Dutch grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him into the boat. 

“Don’t worry, son, I like to think I’m an adequate swimmer. If anything happens, I’ll save you.” Dutch sounded concerned but sure as hell didn’t look it.

John glared at him and sat on the thwart, waiting for the man to take his seat at the rear end of the vessel. When he first began rowing, they didn’t talk much beyond Dutch giving him navigational instructions. John had hoped they would stop at one of the islets visible from the camp, but it transpired that Dutch had other ideas. 

“Do you hear her moans when she touches herself?” 

“Beg your pardon?” John thought he’d heard wrong. 

“I’m talking about Arthur,” Dutch explained, expression blank, though there was an unsettling spark in his dark gaze. “Do you like to listen to her masturbate?”

“I’ve no clue wha-”

“Must be very frustrating for you, John...”

John didn’t know what to say. He just stared at Dutch, his jaw hanging slightly open. He noticed he’d stopped rowing when the man motioned for him to resume the activity, which he did mechanically. 

“How do you imagine yourself taking her? Gently, or perhaps you’d like to be a little rough?” 

Dutch’s tone was softer now, almost… seductive. John’s traitor of a cock twitched. He chewed on the corner of his lip, looking at anywhere and nowhere… just not at the man sitting in front of him as he tried not to let his imagination take the better of him. 

“I bet you’d like to think you’d take her gently, but in truth what you really want is to fuck her real hard.... hmm, son? Shove your cock in her tight pussy and pound like there is no tomorrow, oh and it _is_ tight, I assure you...”

Dutch’s measured, husky laugh made him dizzy. He wanted him to stop talking and not stop talking at the same time. His prick was straining against his jeans painfully and he feared the other man might notice too.

“Grips your cock like a vice, and the way she mewls, mmm, absolutely delicious… There is nothing like it, John… Here is good.”

It took John a second to realise Dutch meant he should stop rowing, and he did, but his hands still clutched the oars, kneading as he fixed his blackened eyes on the man. His mind was divided between whether he should punch him in the jaw or… Dutch stood up suddenly, making the boat rock, propelling a panicked John to clasp the oars even more tightly. 

“Guess what, son... Looks like we forgot to bring fishing poles!” Dutch stopped searching the vessel and recovered his seat, sighing but looking unperturbed, amused even. “Reckon it’s too late to go back and get them. Whatever shall we do now...”

John watched Dutch stare idly at the sinking sun, as if in contemplation, hands clasped loosely, elbows resting on his knees. Slowly, John let go of the oars and shifted on his seat, trying not to give in to his doubts about whether Dutch had forgotten the poles by mistake... 

“Dutch, the other night… I...”

“Tell you what, John,” Dutch interrupted him, a strange look shining in his eyes. He leant back and rested his elbows against the wooden frame, legs spread apart. “If you are a good boy, I’ll let you fuck Arthur.”

John blinked a few times before his jaws clenched in anger, teeth gritting against teeth. Sadly, anger wasn’t the only sensation surging to the surface. He felt incredibly horny, and the worst part was that he couldn’t tell if he was aroused because of the promise or as a result of viewing Dutch’s obscene pose. 

“She’s been pining for you…”

 _Liar!_ John was going to shout, but before he knew what he was doing he had stood up and was pacing the distance between them, careful like a fawn treading on ice from fear of the boat capsizing. Dutch was accommodating when he kissed him, opening his mouth invitingly to let John slip his tongue inside and run it over his tobacco-flavoured teeth, pausing on the sharp tip of the canines, before engaging in a sensual dance with his tongue. His hands rested on Dutch’s shoulder and his chest, rising and falling powerfully, providing him with steady support. Growing bolder, John crushed his lips against Dutch’s with heightened persistence, coaxing approving grunts from the man by gently rubbing his knee against his groin. His passion soaring into savage need, he felt Dutch’s teeth getting caught on his upper lip and withdrew in pain, tears circling in his eyes. John ignored Dutch’s arrogant smirk and moved to kiss the man’s strong jawline, frenzied, nibbling and nipping on his neck, tongue circling his Adam’s apple as clumsy fingers fumbled with the red waistcoat’s buttons. Losing patience, he ripped Dutch’s shirt open and trailed hot kisses on his naked chest, pulling on the black curls with his teeth, then moving to kiss and suck on his nipples, drawing laden growls from the man. His hands roamed on the Dutch’s torso, mapping the pronounced definition of his abdominal muscles, fingers sliding through the warm confines of his clothing to rake against his back. John’s tongue trailed lower, and lower, until he was kneeling between Dutch’s thighs on the floor of the softly swaying boat, head level with his crotch. 

John didn’t immediately unfasten Dutch’s trousers. Instead, he pressed his face against the clothed bulge, rubbing his brow, nose and cheeks against the fabric, mouthing the outline of his half-hard cock and balls with a hunger he’d never felt before. He pressed his palms on the man’s thighs, spreading them wider. Dutch’s lusty groans, which he was apparently trying to hold back, were music to his ears. John opened the front of Dutch’s trousers with shaky hands, crooning excitedly as the musky aroma hit him. He held the base of Dutch’s length and rubbed it against his cheeks and lips, taking in the heady scent, then ran a curious tongue along the shaft, from bottom to the reddening top to the bottom again, licking and kissing the protruding veins. 

“Fuck…”

He grinned impishly when he looked up to see Dutch’s half-lidded eyes glazed with pure delight. John’s gaze remained fixed on the man’s when he took the smooth head of his cock in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the unfamiliar texture until it was unforgettably familiar. His tongue slid to rest below the frenulum as he sucked on the now fully hard member like a starving babe, squeezing his hand around the thick girth, his other hand cradling the heavy nuts. John gasped in surprise when, finally having lost his composure, Dutch bent forward to slap his hands away, grabbed the back of his head and pulled it roughly forward until his cock hit the back of John’s throat, making him gag. Tears streaming from the corner of his eyes, John could feel his own cock leaking and mewled in want. 

“Relax, boy…”

Dutch wound his fingers in John’s unruly locks and tugged his head back before bucking his hips sharply, hitting John’s throat again, repeatedly and unrelenting even when John dug his fingernails into the man’s thighs. John gasped for air whenever it was allowed him, his hands flying to his trousers to free himself…

“Don’t you dare, boy!” Dutch roared, pulling John off, letting him breathe properly, which he did thankfully. “You’re not to touch yourself yet. Open you mouth…”

He had scarcely done so, startled and giddy, when Dutch’s spit landed his mouth. He swallowed quickly in reflex and received a pat on the cheek. He felt Dutch place a hand on his shoulder while the other readjusted his grip on his head, guiding his mouth to the base of his cock. John sucked on his balls, one after the other, moaning in tandem with Dutch’s increasingly intensifying panting. He then moved his attention back to the length, cajoling pleasure-grunts from the man as he wrapped his lips around the angry head once more.

“God, fuck…”

Suddenly his mouth flooded with a bitter-salty taste. John’s eyes widened as he realised Dutch had come, unannounced. He tried to still Dutch’s bucking movements by pressing his palms to his abdomen and swallowed the first few spurts, but nursed the rest on his tongue, savouring the texture. John closed his mouth when Dutch withdrew, moist eyes trained on the man’s flushed cheeks and heaving chest. He was thinking whether he should swallow or spit the rest of the spend, when Dutch cupped his jaw in one hand, rubbing the underside of his chin softly with his fingertips. John swallowed. 

They stared at each other for a while, neither saying a word. It was dark now; John could hear ripples in the water where fishes swam. Held under Dutch’s impenetrable gaze, he felt like he had swallowed a poison with no antidote, like he would always have a lethal part of Dutch nestled in him, ready to strike...

“Take off your clothes,” Dutch commanded at length, leaning back again. “All of them.”

John didn’t hesitate in following the order; he was dying to have his release. He shed his jeans first, then his vest and shirt and last his union suit. He felt extremely vulnerable standing there naked, cock erect, worrying if Dutch might actually make him swim... He wouldn’t be that cruel, would he?

“I want to watch you get yourself off.”

John exhaled a sigh of relief and laid himself down on the bottom of the vessel, reclining against the bundle of clothing. He collected a dollop of pre-cum in his palm and began running his slick hand up and down his shaft, his breath growing laboured as he was finally given a chance to satisfy his need. John closed his eyes to take in the wondrous sensation of the cool lake breeze washing over his naked skin. His other hand shifted to slip a finger inside his hole - Abigail used to do this for him before they’d had Jack and the habit had grown on him since. Dutch’s surprised chuckle brought John back to his senses, but he was far too gone to stop now, and couldn’t care less what Dutch thought... When out of curiosity he half-opened his eyes, the voracious impression in Dutch’s eyes almost made him come. He noticed the man was stroking himself, though not fully hard yet. John closed his eyes again and stretched his legs wider, throwing his head back on the soft cushion of his clothes as he continued fingering himself, twisting his grip as he yanked on his length rhythmically.

“Ahhh… hnnn… hahh… hmmph...” 

Audible moans and gasps spilled from him unbidden to merge with Dutch’s staccato grunts. John keened as his finger hit his pleasure spot continually, pre-cum freely dribbling from his slit. He sped up his movements, cringing as he bit on the recently healed scar on his lip. He was soon bucking and grinding his hips in rapid desperation, oblivious to his surroundings, until white flashed before his eyes and heat drenched his loins, electric currents coursing through his body. 

Riding his orgasmic high, bleary eyes surveying the dotted heavens, back arched, toes curled, John didn’t notice Dutch was standing above him, feet planted on either side of his naked torso, jerking his erect cock with wild urgency, until he felt the burning jets hit his face and chest, one landing in his mouth. Dutch howled his ecstasy, panting like a charging bull. He then descended on his knees, almost straddling John, as he scooped the pearly liquid, John’s and his own, from his belly, chest and face, and fed it to him, smearing some on his scars gently as he caressed his cheeks.

“Dutch...”

A hand clamped over his mouth. He watched Dutch’s frame suspended above him, sweat dripping from his disheveled hair onto John’s face. He stroked the corner of John’s lips for an abstract moment or two, then retreated and dropped on the seat, head leant back, eyes closed.

The return journey was a soundless dream. John didn’t know how he managed to put on his clothes and row them back. Once the hull bumped against the jetty, he got off the boat and bent to tie the rope. Dutch used his shoulder as leverage to pull himself out of the vessel and onto the walkway. 

“Do you know how close Morgan and Smith are?” Dutch asked, with the same pensive expression as before. 

“I wouldn’t know...”

“No matter, son, forget I asked.” He set off for his tent, stopping midway. “We’ll meet in Saint Denis in three days. You’ll have your reward then.”

John knew he should be happy, he would finally get what he desired, but for some reason he wasn’t happy at all. He felt… used. He hadn’t exactly expected Dutch to kiss and cuddle him, and yet… He couldn’t blame Dutch for how he felt, not when he had done everything on his own accord... All at once he was overcome by shame, and cursed himself for not having felt embarrassed on the boat when he should have, maybe then he would have stopped… 

Lost and confused, he headed straight for Abigail’s tent, kneeling beside her sleeping figure. 

“Abigail…” He touched her shoulder gently.

“John?” She whispered, careful not to wake Jack up. “Something wrong?” The worried look on her face doubled in intensity when she saw his no doubt pitiful expression.

John stood up and motioned for Abigail to follow him behind a tree next to where the horses were tied. Once they’d half-circled the tree, he pushed her back flush against the bark and moved to kiss her, but she turned her head away quickly. 

“What’s wrong with you!?”

“Abigail… please…” He tried to kiss her again, but she denied him access, this time shoving him back.

“I don’t get you, John Marston!” She snapped at him in a hushed voice. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore…”

She turned to leave but he fell to the ground on his knees and clung at her skirts. Hugging her knees in his tight embrace, he hid his face in her belly, not letting go. 

“John…” Abigail sounded frustrated, but eventually he felt her fingers glide through his hair, caressing his head with maternal tenderness. “What have you done now?”


	8. L’ami le plus fidèle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Charles’s POV.
> 
> The adventures of Gentleman Charles and Arthur Troublemaker...

Thieves’ Landing was by no means Charles’s favourite hideout, but it would have to do for now. At least they wouldn't come across any lawmen in the outlaw settlement, and given Morgan’s present state, that was certainly a plus...

With all the tension in the camp throughout the past fortnight, Charles had felt fortunate to be given a chance to get away, and so he hadn’t asked many questions when he was informed that the job entailed Arthur and him returning to Blackwater for a reconnaissance. With Morgan being unrecognisable in his current guise, Dutch had reasoned that this would be an excellent opportunity for them to test the waters a little, maybe even pretend to be bounty hunters and provide Pinkertons & Co with a few false trails. Problem was, although Arthur remained incognito, Charles was nearly identified by no doubt a survivor among the people they’d saved Sean from. They had to quickly make themselves scarce, and here they were now, leaning against the counter in a makeshift saloon, surrounded by hostile glances from Del Lobos wannabees and random riff-raff, while Arthur chugged shot after shot of whiskey. 

“You might have had enough, Morgan…”

“C’mon, Charrrles... Don’t be a killjoy!”

“Not much joy to kill around here…” Charles sighed, twirling his glass between his index finger and thumb as he cast a look about them and spied a sneering patron groping his junk suggestively, licking his lips as he eyed Arthur. This sort of behaviour certainly explained the absence of women in the fine establishment, and the entire village... Charles’s gaze returned to his drink, which he downed a second later. They’d be lucky if they could get out of the place unscathed...

“Hey, Charles, why do you think Dutch sent us to Blackwater?” Arthur asked with a thoughtful look on his countenance, brow furrowed, nursing his drink. “I mean, what’s the point of a _reconnaissance_? If he’d told me where they’d hid the money, now that would be something... We could get the money and we’d all be out of here, head back west, roam free…” 

“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” Charles shifted forward, placing more weight on his forearms as he motioned for the bartender to refill his glass. He hadn’t known Dutch for long, but he definitely seemed to have changed since Blackwater, for the worse, Charles suspected, trying not to dedicate much thinking space to the man’s recent deeds. The Landing was not the best of places for losing one’s temper...

“I bet it’s part of one of his secret plans…” Morgan rolled his eyes, cheeks glowing red. “Always has one nowadays... You know, back in the day, when it was just the four of us, we used to discuss things... Took votes on every job... Marston, of course, had only half a vote, on account of him being a halfwit twig of a thing…” He paused to chuckle, though there wasn’t mirth in his laughter. “Don’t really know what happened…”

“People change…”

“I guess... Reckon it began when Hosea started seeing more of Bessie…”

Charles waited for Arthur to continue, but he remained silent. He didn’t like seeing his friend so glum, and tried to think of saying something to cheer Morgan up, but the gloomy atmosphere of the tavern really wasn’t that inspiring.

“Must have been pretty tough for you these past few weeks,” Charles smiled, hoping his smile would be as contagious as Arthur’s tended to be. “You’ve got grit, friend.”

Arthur shrugged and waved a hand dismissively. “Ain’t nothing special... We’re outlaws, shit happens... I’m just used to wallowing in it, heh…”

Charles observed Arthur for a while, his eyebrows knitted as he spoke next: “I’ve been meaning to ask, what did you wish for when you drank the brew?”

“Hmm,” Arthur looked a bit surprised when he tilted his head towards him, eyebrows lifted. Then grinned. “Why don’t you make a guess?”

“Ah, let me see... To be forever united in body and soul with a beautiful woman?” He knew it was a lame joke, but hoped it might help change the mood a bit.

“Hah! That’s the best one I’ve heard so far…” Arthur nodded in emphasis, a mischievous glint nestled in his eyes. “Maybe you ain’t so hopeless after all, Mister Smith! If you put some effort into it, that is…” He shook his head and sighed. “Nah, nothing as fancy as that... Just wished to be someone else, if I recall correctly…”

Charles’s relief at observing his friend’s smile was not to last very long. He could very well sympathise with the sentiment reflected in Morgan’s latter words, but for some reason he couldn’t help feeling a pang of sorrow in his chest when he mentioned his wish. He reached to place a consoling hand on Arthur’s shoulder, but stopped halfway, wondering if such a gesture might not be perceived as too familiar.

“We all wish to be someone else at various points in our lives,” He spoke at length. Realising how morose he had sounded, he made another attempt at lightening the tone of the conversation: “So, have you found happiness?” 

This time the _joke_ failed. Arthur’s shoulders fell and he downed another shot of whiskey. When he turned towards Charles, he noticed his gaze was beginning to look a bit unfocused. “Depends what you mean by ha-”

“Next one’s on me,” a stranger interjected when Arthur was about to hail the bartender. “I’ll treat you to a drink or three and you gimme a taste of that juicy pussy. How about that, pretty girl?”

Charles’s expression twisted in alarm as he watched Arthur closely, before softening again when he saw Arthur had remained calm... Until, that is, in an instant Morgan whipped round to face the man and punched him straight under the jaw, sending him staggering backwards and landing on a table where some other fellows were playing cards. Their game ruined, the three players sprang on the man and in less than a minute the whole saloon was engaged in a fully fledged brawl. Charles ignored the chair crashing on his back and rushed for Arthur, grabbed him by the waist and he somehow managed to drag them both out of the cabin with only minor scratches here and there.

“You okay?” Charles panted, letting go of Morgan once they were safely concealed in a narrow space between a couple of shacks. Arthur nodded, but Charles noted how he was holding his right hand in his left, squeezing. The knuckles looked a bit bloody. “Let me fix that…”

“Nah, don’t bother…” Arthur grimaced, shaking his hand a couple of times, then suddenly stopped, lifting his head. “I love that song! Come, Charles!” 

Morgan set off in the direction from which the sound of music was coming from, before Charles could object, and so he had no choice but to follow, keeping his eyes peeled for impending trouble as they approached a campfire in a fenced section of the settlement. The fire was surrounded by half a dozen shady characters, one of whom was playing the banjo and singing a jaunty ditty about a frog who had gone a courting a mouse with his pistols and swords… At least the mood here seemed more relaxed than the saloon.

“Arthur, I don’t think this is a very good idea…”

If Charles had felt a bit tense sitting down with the group, he became positively self-conscious when Arthur called him to dance, in imitation of two other fellows who were doing just that, only intimately... He let himself be pulled back his feet and was somewhat relieved when Morgan linked their arms and commenced a series of spinning manoeuvres that could be called a dance, perhaps...

“C’mon Charles! Bit more lively... That’s it!”

By the time the flea was jigging with the bumbley bee, Charles was beginning to get somewhat dizzy, but at the same time he felt a weight lift off his chest listening to the ring of Arthur’s heartfelt laughter. Soon he was laughing himself as well, though unlike his companion he hadn’t quite reached the point of inebriation where he’d feel comfortable letting his voice loose.

“Next to come was the old gray cat!” Morgan yelled, oblivious to the attention he was gathering. “Swallowed the mouse and ate up the-”

“Hey feller, how much for the wench?”

Morgan stopped whirling and turned to face the man, who kept his beady eyes focused on Charles nevertheless.

“You’re her pimp, ain’t ye?”

“You better-”

“It so transpires that I happen to be my own pimp,” Arthur stepped between the two, pushing Charles away by placing a hand on his chest. “And I take lives for a fee.” In a flash he’d pulled a revolver and pointed it at the man’s belly. “Let’s take this somewhere quiet, shall we?”

Even if he knew this was a terrible idea, a smile sat on Charles’s lips as he shadowed Morgan and his unwilling opponent to a secluded area outside the settlement. His reason nagged him to stop the duel, but he was a bit tipsy himself and he trusted that even a drunk Arthur could bring down any foe. It’d be quite a show, he figured... Until, that is, he recalled Arthur had hurt his hand uppercutting the man in the saloon. Charles’s fingers automatically went to grasp the hilt of his tomahawk, ready to strike if necessary... 

The contenders took their stance at a distance of several yards from each other, just as a torrential rain began descending from the heavens. The whole affair took a few seconds and Charles had barely pulled up the collar of his coat when the stranger fell to the ground with a hole in his face. Charles relaxed his grip on his tomahawk, but his heart dropped to his stomach when he turned to see Morgan sprawled on the ground.

“Arthur!”

Thankfully his friend was smiling once Charles arrived at his side and seemed to have passed out from drunkenness rather than injury. The revolver lay on the palm of his left hand.

“Can you get up? Morgan...”

He didn’t receive any response but incomprehensible mumbling, and so he picked Arthur up and carried him to a hostel nearby.

“Don’t you go and get sweet on me now boy,” Morgan murmured unexpectedly, clasping his collar just as he was lowering him to the bed in the only vacant room. “Ain’t worth it, you hear me…” And with that he was delivered to the realm of unconsciousness.

“I’m going to remove your shirt and pants,” Charles explained, not really expecting any answer as he awkwardly peeled the muddy articles off and tucked Arthur under the blanket. He stared absently at Morgan’s face for a space, before swiftly shaking his head and turning around. He soaked his neckerchief in a basin nearby and sat on the bed, held Arthur’s right hand in his and wiped off the traces of dried blood from the knuckles. He then withdrew bandages from his satchel along with some oily herbs, which he massaged into the skin, before binding Morgan’s hand.

By the time Charles had finished washing the soiled clothes in the basin and hung them to dry, he was utterly exhausted and plopped himself down on the bed next to Morgan, falling asleep abruptly...

“Shut up, John... that’s not a…”

Charles woke up with Morgan’s breath on his neck and arms and legs curled about him. He had some trouble untangling himself and slipping away without waking up Arthur, but managed to do it in the end. Breathing a deep sigh, he put on his clothes and folded Arthur’s dry shirt and trousers on a flimsy chair that he placed next to the bed. Once outside, he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, staring at raindrops pattering on the puddles that formed and unformed in the muddy road. He hoped their horses were still in the stable they had left them at...

“Charles.”

He smiled as he was pulled out of his reverie.

“Thanks for the…” Arthur held up his hand, smiling sheepishly. “Don’t remember much from last night. Hope I didn’t get us into heaps of trouble…”

“You were a barrel of laughs, Morgan.”

“Right…” Arthur drew out a cigarette and Charles held his for him to light it on. “Suppose we should head back when the rain stops.”

“Sure…”

They had a light breakfast, retrieved their horses once the rain had lessened in intensity and rode for a good few hours before setting up camp to let their horses rest and treat themselves to a more substantial fare. They got a good fire going, roasted a rabbit and warmed up several cans of beans and vegetables.

“So, Morgan,” Charles began, already feeling much better now that they were out of that den of thieves and among nature. “Have you unlocked any mysteries of the female sex that you care to share?”

“Hmm, let me think…” Arthur took a bite of a rabbit leg and simultaneously dug his knife in a peach - a combination Charles could not bring himself to understand... “It’s all about the clit, don’t you ever neglect that precious nub... But don’t go pawing at it all crazed like neither, rub it gently, avoid the tip if you can... But best ask the woman you’re with what she likes, I reckon…”

Charles realised belatedly that he shouldn’t have asked Morgan that sort of question and shifted his stance a little.

“And don’t you never, ever, take a woman’s favour for granted…” Arthur stabbed the next peach with a certain savagery.

“How are things between you and Dutch?” Charles asked almost by reflex, immediately wishing he hadn’t done so, seeing as Arthur’s mounting anger seemed to subside into a wistful expression by the query.

“Fine…” Arthur shrugged, nibbling on the brutally wounded peach. “Never saw him as much of a father, anyway, not as I do Hosea…”

“Has he... bothered you again?” Now it was Charles’s turn to grow piqued.

Arthur looked a bit startled when he fixed his blue eyes on his, then lowered his head and responded rather sharply: “That’s not for you to concern yourself with, Charles.” Then as if regretting his tone, he lifted his gaze and added with a measure of gentleness: “Dutch is... Dutch. I owe him a great deal and-”

“But you don’t have to... It’s not how-”

“Don’t be a dumbass, Charles,” Arthur tossed the can away and stood up, pulling his hat down on his face, his eyes lost under the shadow. “Do I look like someone who can be forced to do what he doesn’t want to?” He mounted his mare. “We should split up here, I’ve got some unfinished business in Valentine. See you back in the camp.”

And just like that Morgan was gone. Charles exhaled deeply and cursed himself for saying things he shouldn’t have. He finished his meal quickly, dismantled the campfire, and was soon on his way back to Clement’s Point.

Owing to the detour to Thieves’ Landing, Charles arrived at the camp with some delay. It was early morning, and scarcely had he dismounted Taima when he was accosted by none other than Van der Linde himself.

“Where’s Arthur?”

“He’ll be back later...”

“As I recall, Mr Smith, I specifically asked you to stay by her side _at all times_.”

“Arthur’s his own man, Dutch, I can’t tell him what to do,” Charles was too tired to argue with their boss or ask him why he didn’t seem to be interested in the outcome of the mission. He was going to retreat to his tent, but something in Dutch’s stare made him explain further, without really wanting to: “He had something to do in Valentine…”

Dutch shouted for Duffy to saddle his horse.

“You are aware that she’s _wanted_ in Valentine, aren’t you, Charles?” Dutch hissed from atop Count and galloped away without waiting for an answer.

 _Fuck_...


	9. Più alto quel colletto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Sadie’s POV.
> 
> Sadie and Arthur play dress-up...
> 
> Warning: borders on forced feminisation.

“Who goes there?”

Neither galloping rider responded to Sadie’s holler, but there weren’t that many people pretentious enough to ride white Arabians, so she just shrugged her shoulders and headed for the camp to relieve herself of guarding duty. Van der Linde and his _maréchal_ had already dismounted when Sadie propped her gun against a crate. Her eyes, all the while, were trained on Arthur who was marching angrily towards John’s tent with an equally incensed Dutch on tow. Once he’d stepped in, Morgan shut the flaps in Dutch’s face, leaving him standing outside, chewing the corner of his moustache, before pushing his way in, the heavy flaps falling close behind him. 

“What’s happened, do you think?” Sadie whispered to someone nearby and grimaced when on turning to face him she realised it was Kieran, tending to the two horses. “On second thought, don’t tell me…” Walking away in disdain, she approached the chuckwagon and picked up a plate. She could hear muffled sounds of arguing coming from the tent, but didn’t feel like eavesdropping just then, so she filled her plate with some stew and sat down at a table to eat her dinner. 

Having finished her meal, she drenched the dirty plate in the washtub a couple of times before heading towards John’s tent to check how Morgan was doing. Sadie lingered outside the tent a while, and guessing from the quiet atmosphere that the boss must have left already, she slid a flap open and peeked inside, stepping a foot in gingerly,but immediately coming to a stop when, her eyes getting used to the darkness, she saw Dutch seated on the cot with Arthur on his lap. The former’s arm was curled securely about the latter’s waist as he murmured in his ear. Both were staring at Arthur’s loosely bandaged right hand, cradled in Dutch’s. Sadie took in one’s contented smile and the other’s pensive aspect before retreating with a quick apology. 

It was a strange scene, but stranger still was how it made her miss Jakey and the way he... But no, having spent weeks plunged in sorrow, she couldn’t take another bout of melancholy, and so headed towards Hosea to find out what he was up to. 

“Still playing the mad scientist, Mr Matthews?”

“Hah! You know my flare for make-believe, Mrs Adler,” Hosea was sitting on a large log along the lakeshore, gently poking four drugged frogs with a twig. “Do you have any inkling how one can tell if a frog is a male or a female?”

“You must be real desperate to ask me, Hosea...” Sadie chuckled and sat down with a sigh. “Why don’t you experiment on a squirrel or something, they’ve got _huge_ nuts, easy to tell… Or better still, test on the O’Driscoll boy!” Suddenly she was struck by a great idea. “Let’s turn him into a pig and serve him to his comrades, then-” Yet observing the old man’s disturbed expression, she left the rest unsaid, feeling a bit ashamed. 

“Well then, guess I’ll need to go look for a squirrel!” Hosea stood up after an extensive period of awkward silence and bowed his head lightly before leaving.

All by herself, Sadie fished a damp cigarette from her pocket and lit it, inhaling a long drag as she rolled the frogs into the lake with tip of her boots.

“Mrs Adler.” 

The low-pitched greeting made her jump. She crushed the butt of her burnt-out cigarette on a pebble and turned to face Dutch who was circling the log to take a seat to her right. She couldn’t recall having seen him in such a pleasant mood... He offered her a new cigarette, which she took eagerly, on account of it being of premium quality, and let him light it for her while he lit one for himself.

“How are you settling in?” Dutch exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Alright, I guess...”

“Folk treating you well?” He raised an enquiring eyebrow. “If any of these fools so much as frowns in your direction you let me know and I’ll deal with it.”

“Thanks, Dutch… I don’t think that’d be necessary…”

“We’ll make Colm pay...” He averted his gaze from her to focus on an unknown element in front of him. “I promise you that…” He paused for a moment, as if deciding whether he should say what he was going to say next. “He murdered someone I held very dear. You must have heard the story?”

“I have, yes…” 

The abrupt mention of Colm O’Driscoll had made her blood boil. Sadie smiled at Dutch in sympathy, but didn’t really feel like talking about their common enemy. Neither spoke during the few minutes that followed.

“Do you know that I adore Arthur?” Dutch’s mien looked almost dreamy when she tilted her head to observe him, her lips parted in amazement.

 _Too much information, Dutch_... Sadie had very little interest in the boss’s lust life, so she just let out an ‘uhum’ and lowered her eyes. Later that night she wondered if she had had a death wish when adding a snarky: “Let’s hope the feeling is mutual…” She could almost feel the temperature rising to her right...

“Better yet, let’s pretend you didn’t say that, darling.” 

Dutch’s dark laughter crawled under her skin, making goosebumps flourish all over. She tried to occupy herself by imagining what he wanted from her to act so… graciously, though she didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

“I’ve been working on a plan,” Van der Linde explained, boss mode activated. “You will play an important part in it. I’d like you to take Arthur to the tailor’s in Saint Denis tomorrow and buy her a nice piece of women’s attire.”

Sadie was a bit shocked but also overjoyed by the request. Her eyes widened in enthusiasm as she asked: “Sure, but why me?”

“Because, my dear, I need two competent, assertive women and I trust you’d do just fine.”

“Can’t argue with that!” Sadie grinned. “So, Morgan knows about this?”

“To some extent,” Dutch puffed at his cigarette before flicking it into the lake. “Why don’t you explain the details to her on your way to town tomorrow?” He stood up. “When you’re done, come to this address.” He handed her a neat square note and a wad of cash. “Here’s the money for the clothes. Be there at half past three in the afternoon.”

“Aye aye, General!”

Before calling it a night, Sadie went for a walk along the lake, unable to contain her excitement and anxiety. This would be her first proper ‘job’ with the gang, and although she was happy to finally put her talents to use, it meant also that now she was bound to become one of them: an outlaw. Perhaps even have her mug drawn on a wanted poster... She couldn’t help but wonder what Jakey would have thought of this new development… But Jakey was no more, and if she had to avenge his death by becoming a criminal, a criminal she would become. 

Sadie returned to the camp via the scout’s camp and was surprised on the way to see Marston sleeping in Arthur’s previous cot. _Hmm_... She shrugged as she went on her way and was soon traipsing the realm of Hypnos, dreaming of her life before the fire…

“Here, Arthur, I’ve brought you some coffee.”

Morgan accepted the cup with a thankful smile, gesturing for her sit beside him on the same log she and Hosea, and later she and Dutch, had been sitting on the evening before.

“You’ve changed your style again, Mrs Adler,” Arthur waggled his eyebrows, eyeing her get up. 

“For today only,” Sadie smirked. “Who would’ve thought to become one of you boys I’d have to revert back to blouses and skirts, hah. Dying to see you in one.”

“Nah, that ain’t gonna happen,” Arthur smiled knowingly, sipping some coffee. “I’m comfortable as I am.”

“What about the job?”

“What about it?”

“We need to dress up for it, right?” Sadie wiped her mouth with the hem of her sleeve before realising what she’d done and frowning. “As _ladies_...”

Morgan nearly spat out his coffee. “ _What_? Why!?”

“Didn’t Dutch tell you? We need two women, for distraction I imagine.”

“He told me no such thing…” Arthur’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully. 

“Oh…” So this was what the boss had meant by her having to explain the details of the plan to Arthur. _Figures_ … “I suppose you don’t know then that we’re expected to go to the tailor’s and buy you some clothes?”

“Nope.” And before Sadie could open her mouth he added irately: “I’m not going. Take Karen.”

“Karen might not be suitable...” Sadie was growing agitated at the prospect of the job falling to pieces. “Come on, Morgan, a day in skirts won’t kill you!”

“Don’t push it, Sadie! There is nothing you can say or do to change my mind...”

A couple of hours later, they were on their way to Saint Denis, where they treated themselves to a sumptuous lunch and a warm bath before heading to the tailor’s. 

“Name’s Killgore, Temperance Killgore, and this is my sister, Tacitette.” Sadie performed an exaggerated courtesy before the politely astounded shopkeeper, disregarding Morgan’s glare. “We’re heading to our Uncle Hoagy’s wedding and Cite here is in dire need of new clothes.” She put on her best smile and elbowed a sulky Arthur.

“I can see that…” The tailor cast a glance at Arthur, his nose pinched as his gaze scaled his clothes, as if he’d seen a raccoon hat in a ball. His attention returned to Sadie. “And perhaps you will take something for yourself as well, Madam?” 

“I’m fine as I am, thank you.” Sadie ignored the man’s raising eyebrows. 

“Well then, please have a look at the catalogue and let me know what catches your fancy. Some of the items are fresh from Paris.” 

It took Morgan and her about half an hour to agree on what he should try on, and even then they ended up selecting almost a third of the items in the catalogue… with Sadie adding even more blouses, skirts and dresses as she explained what they wished to try on to the increasingly baffled tailor.

“Please do follow me,” The man showed them to an elaborate fitting room, complete with a tall ornate mirror and a chair. “I’ll have the items brought to you.” 

“Tacitette!?” Arthur rolled his eyes once they were alone. “Could have at least said Tacita!”

“Is that even a name?” Sadie chortled. “Come on, Arthur, let’s do this! Take off your clothes… Just a minute!” 

Sadie opened the fitting room door to retrieve a large selection of clothing, which she heaped on the floor and turned towards Arthur with her hands on her hips.

“What the heck is this? Take that off too!” She gestured at the threadbare union suit and smirked to see Morgan’s cheeks turn pink. “Here, wear this, I won’t look.” She handed him a combination and turned away to let him undress.

“Okay… I’m ready, I think…”

“Bwahahaha!” Sadie burst out in a fierce laughter, which magnified in volume as she spied his intensified embarrassment. She took hold of Arthur’s hand and twirled him around, inspecting various parts of the underwear, lifting his arms and dropping them like she was handling a doll. “You’re so precious, Morgan!”

“Oh shut up,” Arthur grumbled. “I have a notion you’re enjoying this a bit too much, Temperance...”

“So how does it feel?”

“Weird… ticklish… uncomfortable…”

“Hah, wait till you’ve tried the corset on, darling Cite!”

“No, no, no no NO...” He backed away, waving his hands defensively. “None of them girls at camp wear that thing!”

“Miss Grimshaw does! Or did...” Sadie approached him with an evil snigger, holding a cream-colour corset wide open. After a short game of cat and mouse, she finally managed to catch Morgan and wrapped and hooked the constricting article around his waist, spun him to face the wall in a swift move and yanked the strings as hard as she could.

“You’re one mean woman, Mrs Adler!” Arthur wheezed, blue eyes watering.

“You don’t know half of it, Mr Morgan!” Sadie turned Arthur around once she was done fastening the corset and grinned. “So, how do you feel _now_?”

“Like a consumptive Victorian heroine, I imagine...” Arthur panted, or tried to, running his hands over his corsetted ribs and waist in disbelief.

“Good! So black stockings I guess… I like the feel of these, try them on…” She’d barely handed him the silk stockings when she snatched them back. “Or wait, you’ll probably tear them, I’ll put them on for you, sit on that chair over there.”

She’d never thought she would enjoy tormenting Morgan so much, but damn this was fun! Sadie knelt on the floor and patted her lap for Arthur to place his foot on. She then proceeded to slide the stocking on his left leg, tittering when he flinched as her fingers reached his thigh. She tied a red ribbon just above his knee to keep the stocking from slipping down, repeating the same process on his right leg. Sadie next helped Morgan put on a camisole and a pair of frilly knickers, then a petticoat... 

“So which one these boots?”

“Ah, can I have one without heels?” Arthur, already exhausted from putting on various layers of undergarments, eyed the shoes nervously. “Might trip over something during the job…”

“Oh, you’ll get used to them!” By now, Sadie was simply pursuing her own cruel pleasure. “Brown or black?”

“Dunno… brown! No, black!”

“Ooh, racy…” Sadie slipped the boots on Morgan’s feet and laced them one after the other. Removing herself from the floor, she dusted her skirt and helped Arthur up, grinning as she watched him wobble around. “Practise a bit, honey, while I choose your dress.”

Sadie went through several gowns and skirts for about a quarter of an hour, with her charge whining in her ear all the while, either from not being able to walk properly or from boredom. She was going to ask him to be more patient when she noticed he was fiddling with something in his fingers.

“What’s that, is it rouge?” Sadie retrieved the beautiful tin box from Arthur. “Someone must have left it here… Let’s not let it go to waste! Pout for me, sister dearest...” He objected initially, but let her apply the rouge to his lips and cheeks in the end like the good boy that he was.

“Jesus, Sadie, I look like a whore! Or a clown…” Morgan eyed himself in the mirror in horror. “Or both…”

“Aww, Arthur, the Miss O’Shea look ain’t that bad!” Sadie stopped him from rubbing the rouge all over his face, pulled out a handkerchief and dimmed the ruddy tone into a natural hue with careful dabs. “So… Blue makes your eyes come out, but then so does green,” Sadie held the blouses in front of Arthur’s chest. “But grey will let you blend it the background, and I’m wearing white so let’s have some variety. The boss would probably prefer red…”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what Dutch prefers!” Arthur picked up a black dress with a button up high collar. “Let’s go with this. I rather feel like being a widow…” His cheeky smile vanished when he perceived Sadie’s downcast expression. He quickly began mumbling an apology. 

“Oh, it’s fine, Morgan,” Sadie sighed, putting all the clothes away except for the one he’d selected. “That’s a great idea actually. Here I’ll help you put it on.” 

Arthur took the dress but didn’t wear it, instead placed it carefully on the chair. He approached Sadie and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I’m real sorry, Sadie, that was pretty crass of me…” 

“No, Arthur, it’s okay…” She squeaked, and couldn’t hold her tears back when he lifted her chin up. “It’s just that... I never got to mourn him properly… Didn’t even have a funeral...” 

She was now sheltered in Arthur’s fond embrace, in response to which she wrapped her arms around him. For some reason she found it very consoling when he kissed the top of her head. They stood still for a couple of a moments, Morgan gently rocking her in his arms.

“Thanks, Arthur, I’m alright now…” Sadie pulled back, wiping her tears off. “You’re a kind man, you know that?” She hadn’t meant to kiss him on the corner of his lips but her aim for his cheek somehow missed. “Oh…”

He blushed. She blushed. 

“Can I?” She asked and he nodded, so she leant in again and kissed him, for a longer beat, softly, holding back her tongue as she enjoyed the warm surface of his lips. It had felt such a long time since she’d kissed or touched anyone. It felt good. Surprisingly, it didn’t feel like she was cheating, so she let her hands roam over his body with tender curiosity. She kissed his neck, his collar bones...

“Sadie, I want to touch you too…”

She paused, looked up from his bosom, upon which she was planting little pecks. “I don’t think I’m ready for that yet, Arthur…”

He looked discouraged but nodded, letting her push him back against the wall and press her frame against his. She bit her lower lip to hear him gasp when her fingers grazed the outline of his nipples through the flimsy fabrics. She held the small peaks between her fingertips, tweaking, and bent forward to kiss them. He shivered and moaned. 

“You’re very pretty, Arthur Morgan,” she breathed, cupping his cheeks in her hands, staring into his half-veiled eyes. Her Jakey used to tell her she was pretty all the time, but she’d never quite managed to believe him. “I want you to-”

“Pardon, Madam, do you need any assistance making your selection?” The interrupting voice was accompanied by a knock on the door. 

“Damnit, we’ll be out in a second!”

“Alright! No need to curse, Madam!”

“Sadie…” Arthur touched her forearm with a hand as he pushed her away gradually. “Let’s pay for these and leave.” He started slipping on the black dress. She helped him the the buttons. “You’re very kind, Mrs Adler, but I ain’t pretty. I’ve killed people, will probably kill more… And I’m too old to believe there is such a thing as honourable outlaws, or even citizens... Everyone is a thief and a murderer to some degree, and no one is honourable, with the exception of some children perhaps and a few odd souls… Well, reckon we’re done.” 

They didn’t talk much in the distance between the tailor’s and the rented room. Sadie didn’t know what to think of Morgan’s final remark. It sounded incredibly sad to her, but also somehow… sinister. Perhaps she didn’t know Arthur well enough… He was right in that he was a killer, but the way he’d behaved with her made her doubt he was as bad as he said he was. At the same time, she couldn’t help but wonder if she would become as hardened once she’d slaughtered innocents alongside them. Sadie didn’t have much to live for, but still the thought frightened her... 

Arthur rapped his knuckles against the door of the room they were supposed to meet John and Dutch in. It was the latter who opened the door. 

“Thank you, Mrs Adler. I see that you’ve accomplished your task admirably... Your part is now over, I’ll take over from here.”

He pulled Arthur into the room and closed the door. 

_Huh!!!?_


	10. Wie gross ist die Gefahr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur’s POV.
> 
> John gets his reward…
> 
> Porn with loads of angst, basically.

“What do you think, son? Lovely, isn’t she…”

Arthur needed a moment to get a full grasp of the situation. Mrs Adler and him were supposed to meet Dutch and Marston in a third-floor room of an apartment in the Chinese district. Now Sadie was gone, and John was standing in the middle of the room, looking both embarrassed and excited. Dutch, meanwhile, had positioned himself behind Arthur, his hands clasped firmly around his waist. Arthur’s gun-belt lay somewhere on the floor. 

“Yeah…” John’s voice was as foreign as the shade of his eyes.

Arthur took hold Dutch’s hands, trying to pry his fingers apart. Not succeeding in the endeavour, he looked up at the man, eyebrows knitted as he murmured, as if frightened to awaken some primeval beast by speaking loudly: “What is this, Dutch?”

“Remember what you agreed to in Lagras?” Dutch whispered without taking his eyes off Marston. “I promised John I’d let him have you if he was a good boy…” Parting his mouth from Arthur’s ear, he spoke in a higher volume: “You’ve been a good boy John, haven’t you?”

John didn’t respond, yet Arthur could swear he perceived the slightest nod, which was enough to leave his head reeling with a mixture of agitation, anger and loss… Before he had a chance to express any of these sentiments, Dutch relaxed his grip and pushed him towards John, who caught him in his arms when he landed against his chest, having lost his balance thanks to the blasted tiny boots.

“Sorry, Morgan…” John mumbled, avoiding eye contact. 

Swiftly Arthur shook himself free from Marston’s embrace and slapped him across the face, marvelling at how shocked the boy looked, as if he’d done nothing wrong to deserve it. “The balcony! NOW!” 

He turned to face Dutch once John was outside, the window door closed behind him. He paced the distance between himself and the other man, noticing a slight quirk at the corner of Dutch’s lips when on the way he tripped on the skirt. _Damnit_... Arthur lifted his arm to strike, but Dutch was ready for him and seized his wrist mid-air. Almost immediately he was pushed against the wall, Dutch’s mouth capturing his, demanding, devouring, even as his thighs were forced apart.

“A widow, Arthur? How cold-hearted...” Dutch panted once he’d pulled back, allowing them both to catch their breath, while his unoccupied hand secured Arthur by the waist. “Though I have to confess, black looks good on you...”

“What are you doing, Dutch?” Arthur sighed, doing his best to ignore the heat kindling in his belly as the man proceeded to kiss him on his clothed neck, biting through the fabric. “Why... John, hnmm…” Dutch’s left hand let go of his wrist and dropped to his breast, kneading with all-consuming want. “Is this some... sort of punishment?” He hissed when a determined thigh pressed against his core, sliding upwards and downwards, slowly, slowly. “I told you... Charles didn’t do any-” Dutch crushed his lips against his, soft in his tyranny, both his hands descending to grab hold of his skirts.

“I want you to let John fuck you.” Dutch’s gaze, fixed on his as he withdrew marginally, brimmed with the same nonchalance as if he was asking him to throw a train conductor off a bridge. “It’s as simple as that.”

Arthur almost laughed. Nothing was simple when Dutch was concerned. A shudder ran through him when he felt his skirts being bunched up as hands slipped underneath the black fabric to paw insistently at his buttocks. An involuntary moan escaped him when he was abruptly swept up, Dutch’s hands hooked under his knees, forcing him to glide his hands from the man’s chest to his shoulders to keep himself steady. Dutch’s growl as he ground his growing arousal between his suspended thighs reverberated across Arthur’s frame, prompting the grip of his hands to tighten, fingernails digging in the man’s upper back. 

“No...”

“What can I do to change your mind, Arthur?” Dutch kissed the shell of his ear, licking his earlobe, moving to nibble on the supple skin below his chin. 

“Nothing you can do...” Arthur swallowed and curled three digits in the thick black locks, quickly as he wound the leg Dutch had let go of about the man’s hips, gasping when unseen fingers began deftly massaging his clitoris. He could feel the underwear growing damper with the passing of each second and it took him not a small amount of willpower and concentration to say the next words with the intended firmness: “And if you force it... I’ll leave, for good.” 

Dutch withdrew his head instantly and stared at him. He didn’t change their position otherwise, on the contrary it was as if he had become entirely inanimate, stone-carved, a statue of a pagan deity long forgotten. Archaic. Irrelevant. _No, no_... Arthur willed that Dutch would rage at him, deride him, beat him, glare in wrath or lie in seeming sweetness, all of which he could take, had taken, but the distance-in-proximity he could not stand. Something inside him fractured to see Dutch looking as if he had been expecting the fatal words, perhaps not in the present circumstances, but at some point in the future, and had contemplated their imminence accordingly, so much so that he was now able to don this practised mask of stillness. Funny that the one time Dutch had prepared himself to not look hurt, Arthur knew for a fact that he was.

“Dutch…” Arthur tipped his head forward, resting his brow against the man’s as he held his face between his palms, kissing him tenderly on his passive lips, cheekbones, the tip of his nose. He wasn’t prevented from upsetting their position to free his leg. As soon as the sole of his boot touched the floor, his legs went weak and he fell to his knees, skirts pooling about him. He took Dutch’s right hand in his and pressed his lips over his knuckles, his rings, the lines crossing his palm, with same veneration one would lavish on a saint, begging for absolvation of a grave sin. _I didn’t mean it… didn’t mean_... It was with ecstatic solace that he sighed when the same hand moved to cup his cheek gently, thumb caressing his temple, fingers circling around his throat, one by one, fiercely clasping as he was hauled up and knocked against the wall once more, breath leaving his lungs as he gazed at Dutch with misty eyes. 

Arthur had never felt so feverishly happy as he did when witnessing the return of the fiendish flame to the brown eyes, blazing with doubled fury. Without removing his ringed hand from Arthur’s throat, Dutch freed his cock from his trousers, spread Arthur’s legs wide open as he explored the textile confusion in search of the slit in his undergarments, growling low when his fingers found their way to the hot moist folds, which he stroked gently before violently pushing his length in to the hilt. Arthur threw his head back, taking in every second of the burning ache, deserved, yearned for, with penitent zeal. His hands clutched at Dutch’s shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist as he commenced moving in a punishing tempo, driving him up against the wall with each thrust. Dutch's grunts, constant in his ear, assumed an almost unearthly quality when Arthur licked his earlobe, holding in between his teeth, biting, inhaling his familiar scent. 

“Send John away...” Arthur entreated in between pleasure-mewls, encouraged when sensing Dutch slow his rhythm. “We’ll stay here… just the two of us...” This was his last attempt at reasoning with the man, for Marston’s sake, as well as for the sake of his own sanity. “Don’t get him mixed up in this…”

“No.” Dutch traced a line of kisses along the left side of his jaw, repositioning a hand to pinch Arthur’s hardened nipples peeking through their black envelope. 

“Why?” Arthur moaned in frustration, tugging on Dutch’s hair, half-distracted by the delicious sensation of his sensitive insides being stimulated with every strike. “Why... are you doing this?” He managed to mutter, then cooing softly: “I’ll let you do whatever you want...”

“Arthur, what’s the point of making you do what you would do willingly?” Dutch chuckled, securing a hand under his rump to keep him from slipping. 

Before Arthur could think of a counterattack, verbal or otherwise, he felt a gentle breeze to his left and fixing his searching gaze in that direction saw Marston standing with his hand on the back of a chair, staring at them with his mouth slightly open.

“Isn’t he pitiful?” Dutch had observed John too, but didn’t stop thrusting as he whispered: “Just like the day we picked him up… Don’t you feel sorry for him?” He became still suddenly, pinning Arthur against the wall with his weight, gazing into his eyes as he used his thumb to smear what was left of the rouge in a broad stroke to one side of his lips. “ _I saw pale kings and princes too, pale warriors, death-pale were they all_...”

“You’re a sick man,” Arthur shoved him back with renewed vigour, hissing at the pain of the sudden extraction. He didn’t look at Dutch - so furious was he that he’d used a favourite poem of his - as he steadied himself and marched towards John, whose grip on the chair tightened. Holding John’s scarred face in both hands, Arthur guided his lips to his own, not quite sure if he was doing this out of spite for Dutch or from curiosity. The boy remained motionless for a moment, before enfolding Arthur in his arms, almost bending him backwards. Arthur couldn’t help but whimper at the realisation that John’s kiss, while just as passionate, was much kinder than Dutch’s, his tongue probing against his politely, the hold of his hands firm but considerate. 

The tender embrace was not to last long, however. As soon as they had both begun moaning and pressing against each other in patient fervour, Arthur felt his body separating from John’s as he was wrenched backwards into Dutch’s stiflingly oppressive arms. Dutch gave him little time to adjust to the sudden change and was now kissing him with treble ardour. From the sound of a thud behind him, Arthur reckoned he must have thrown John to the floor. He was soon to follow as he was forced to his knees by the weight of the unrelenting embrace, with Dutch following suit, until they were both stretched on the carpeted floor. No longer able to endure the suffocating stance, Arthur pounded with his fists against Dutch’s chest and finally had to bite him on the lips to make him stop. He could taste Dutch’s blood in his mouth as he gasped for air. 

Having recovered a measure of his senses, Dutch looked discomfited for a fraction of a second before composing himself and standing up, dragging Arthur with him. He sat on the foot of the bed, placing Arthur between his spread thighs, his stiff member flush against his rear. “Come, boy.” He curled a finger at Marston.

If he hadn’t been so emotionally and physically overwhelmed, Arthur would have laughed to see John crawl towards them on all fours. 

“Kiss her boot.” Dutch ordered, gathering up Arthur’s skirts to reveal the intended article. 

Watching Marston reverently take hold of his boot, Arthur sensed Dutch’s hands ascending to the back of his neck where, in a deliberate pace, he began unbuttoning the numerous buttons starting from top of the high collar. His attention was soon entirely focused on the thrilling sight of John avidly kissing and then licking the fine leather, and so when Dutch’s hands crept through the opening he had created on the back of the dress to cup his breasts, Arthur cried in surprise, as if touched by a lightning spark. Tilting his head upwards, he saw that Dutch’s eyes were still centred on John, whereupon Arthur’s gaze returned also, drawn by the exquisite sensation of Marston’s lips travelling up his boot to his shin, knee, thigh, leaving wet traces and tiny rips on the delicate stocking wherever he licked and nipped at… _Hmmmmm_ … Arthur bit his lower lip not to let out a prolonged moan, which escaped his mouth later anyhow when Dutch’s fingers, having torn their way below the camisole, granted a particularly sharp tweak to his nipples, now only covered by a frail combination. Writhing in delight at the invading sensations, Arthur’s skirts fell over Marston’s head and shoulders when the boy journeyed further up. Soon afterwards, he felt the petticoat and the knickers being unfastened and removed, while Dutch kissed him diligently on each vertebra in his spine, impatient hands ripping the combination.

“Ah…”

As if the two of them were in some sort of devilish harmony, the same moment Dutch’s rough palms and fingers curved around his naked breasts, John’s tongue darted into his entrance, where the other man’s cock had been lodged only moments ago, his calloused thumb rubbing circles around his clit. Arthur gripped John’s head through his skirt, holding him close even as he turned his face upwards, parted mouth begging to be kissed. Dutch obliged, letting Arthur suck on his tongue as his left hand dropped to his corsetted belly. He felt his orgasm building, and Dutch must have sensed it too, since abruptly he broke the kiss and pushed John’s head away, eliciting an exasperated moan from Arthur. 

Marston look dazed when he emerged from beneath the voluminous fabrics, licking his glistening lips like a cat satiated on milk. Dutch’s expression must have been reassuring, since a moment later John was crawling on top of Arthur and, to his astonishment, kissing Dutch wildly as his hands roamed all over Arthur’s body.

“Greedy boy…” Dutch hummed, laughing softly as he shoved John back.

Together they liberated Arthur from his dress, letting it fall to the floor next to the undergarments, until all that was left was the torn combination, the corset and black stockings. The gratified glint in Dutch’s eyes was unmissable as he spied the red garters. 

“Take it off…” Arthur heard himself whining as he clawed at the corset. Thankfully Dutch indulged his request, unhooking the article with experienced ease, and while John undressed rapidly, he pulled Arthur further up on the bed, himself leaning his back against the headboard. With Dutch’s tongue leisurely savouring his, Arthur couldn’t see but heard Marston crawling on top of the bed, hungry hands spreading his thighs apart, burning hardness pressing at his yielding cunt. He sighed audibly in Dutch’s mouth when John’s cock filled his tingling emptiness. 

Dutch’s lips retreated, to be replaced by John’s. Missing the former’s presence, Arthur reached a hand up and was relieved when Dutch took it in his. He closed his eyes when Marston began thrusting, squeezing Dutch’s hand, obstinately, as if by letting go he might fall into the bottom of a deep dark well. His other hand rested lightly on the back of John’s neck while the latter moved to kiss and suck on his breasts and nipples with pronounced avarice, all the while driving into him in an unexpectedly steady pace, making Arthur arch his back. It was extremely pleasant to sense John’s skin glide against his own, and Arthur realised that all the times he had been with Dutch he had always been clothed. Feeling Dutch’s thumb brush gently over his pinkie’s fingernail, Arthur opened his eyes and looked up, puzzled to spy the desolate look in the man’s gaze. Like an ocean deprived of the pull of the moon, he felt his pleasure ebb, dulled though still lingering. His eyes remained fixed on Dutch’s when he heard Marston’s groans growing uneven in pitch, his movements erratic. He saw Dutch lift his eyebrows ever so slightly and as if on a cue Arthur wrapped his right arm around John’s shoulder, fingers raking against his back, legs tightening about his waist, false moans spilling from his mouth as he play-acted his climax in time with the boy’s.

Dutch looked pleased.

Marston shifted to kiss him briefly on the mouth before slipping off the bed, lost from view. Arthur’s eyelids fluttered shut as he strived not to think, willing to fall asleep while enjoying the light caress of Dutch’s fingers on his forehead…

“Good boy…” He wasn’t sure which one of his favourites Dutch was referring to. 

Several moments later, he was drawn out of the plain of oblivion when his attention was peaked by the sound of Dutch groaning. He tipped his head to the left and half-opened his eyes. The sight of John on his knees sucking Dutch’s cock did things to him, good things... Automatically his hand flew to his sex and started stroking his clitoris, keenly as he observed the scene, lying on his side. A moan erupted from his chest when Dutch slipped two fingers inside Arthur’s mouth unbidden. He let his tongue twirl about them idly, making the man grunt in satisfaction. No sooner than John’s hazy gaze was on him that the boy let go of Dutch’s shaft, much to the latter’s consternation, and in a flash was on top of Arthur again, licking Dutch’s fingers alongside him before pulling them out and kissing Arthur, tasting of Dutch… Before long, Arthur was flipped to his stomach and John was pounding into him from behind. At some point, John’s moans became muffled and judging by the movements on the mattress, Arthur reckoned Dutch must be fucking his mouth again. Already agitated by the constant edging, and with John’s hot prick hitting him in all the right places in this position, and the obscene wet sounds marking their triple union, this latter bit of information ripped Arthur’s orgasm from him brutally. He felt his walls convulsing around Marston who moaned over Dutch’s cock even louder and was soon pulsing his release inside Arthur. From Dutch’s savage roar, Arthur figured he must have come as well, as he himself lay listless, basking in the electric currents that ran through his body, teeth letting go of the sheets... 

Panting heavily, all three sprawled on the bed, Arthur wedged between John and Dutch. Listening to the echoing thumping of his heartbeat, Arthur reached and placed his palm on Dutch’s chest, counting his hammering pulse as he fell asleep gradually...

It was dusk when Arthur woke up, gossamer curtains swelling languidly as the evening breeze hailed through the tall windows. Dutch was gone and John was still stretched at his side. He felt an unknown presence around his neck and when he touched it, he realised it was a silk ribbon with a big bow to the side. 

“What’s this…” Asked a raspy half-asleep voice.

When he looked at John, Arthur discovered that he also had a red ribbon tied around his neck, with a bow on the opposite side… _Bastard_... He shook John’s shoulder until his sleepy gaze was fixed on him. “Wake up, John, let’s get going, it’s evening already…”

John curled around him in response, holding fast. “I want to cuddle a bit…”

“Aw, come on… Don’t be an idiot, John...” Arthur tried to push him away so that he could get up and see if anything was left of his clothes.

“I love you...”

Immediately Arthur spun in John’s direction, ready to punch him in the eye, and was even more startled to see how serious he looked. 

“I love you, Arthur...” Marston repeated, leaning to kiss him gently on his shoulder - which made him flinch - then his breast, where he laid down his head.

Arthur watched him for a while, then watched a crack in the ceiling for an equal period of time, not sure what to say, as he allowed his fingers to run lazily through the unwashed hair. “You aren’t in love with me, John. You’re probably confused... or fuck-crazed... If anything, you’re in love with Dutch… The way you-”

“You’re just like him you know,” John sounded hurt and even looked it when he raised his head to look a speechless Arthur in the eyes. “Controlling bullies, the both of you… Telling me what I can or can’t feel…” He rested his head on Arthur’s chest again. “Can’t I love you both...”

It took Arthur a while to find something meaningful to say, the hardest part being he couldn’t deny that there was a smattering of truth in Marston’s words. Still, he couldn’t let the boy mess things up even more than they were already. “And Abigail?” When no answer came but a lick on his nipple, he added triumphantly: “You’re just a horny dog, ain’t you, Marston? I bet you’d serenade a tree if it let you rut against its bark...”

As if waiting for a signal, John gingerly pressed his rockhard length against his thigh. Arthur would be lying if he said he wasn’t envious of the boy’s stamina… 

“Besides, I ain’t gonna stay like this forever…”

“I’d still love you, Arthur...” He kept rubbing against him shamelessly. “No matter how you look like...”

“For fuck’s sake, Marston!” The utterance wasn’t only a response to John’s remark, but a sign of Arthur’s appreciation, for the first time, of the repercussions his change could have on their relationships even after he had turned back. He wasn’t worried about Dutch, who only had his occasional whims and bouts of fancy… But he feared John might get attached. As if he hadn't been carrying most of the burden of providing for the camp, now he would have to take care of John’s feelings too, and his family’s no doubt… _Stupid, stupid, boy!_

“Let’s fuck again,” John was grinning now, his foolish face suspended over Arthur’s unimpressed one. He bent to kiss him on the lips and Arthur humoured him for only a second or two before twisting his head away, prompting the boy to nestle his face in the crook of his neck. “Arthur, let me... Please… You’re my big brother, ain’t you?” He pressed his weight between Arthur’s thighs, rubbing the leaking head of his prick along his slit. “Take care of your little brother…”

The cheeky brat. Arthur ran his fingers along John’s well-defined chest and back, wondering how a little boy could be lodged in a man’s body. He sighed when John bit his nipples affectionately, sliding his hands along the sensitive inner sides of his thighs, caressing. 

“Alright! But we’ll leave after this…” Arthur put his agreement on account of his feeling guilty for faking that first orgasm. “And I’ll be on top.”

“I knew it!” John chuckled and smirked impishly. “You love Little Johnny Marston, don’t you?”

Arthur rolled John onto his back and straddled him. “You named your cock after the nickname I gave you?” No wonder the boy got so flustered whenever he called him that… “You’re hopeless, Marston…” He rubbed his slick folds along John’s length teasingly, watching with wicked delight as he drew further moans and whimpers from him. “Just wait till I’ve got _Big Morgan_ back, I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll forget about throwing around ‘I love you’s like you know what love means…”


	11. Che più cercando io vo?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s POV.
> 
> His perspective of Arthur shifts between 'he' and 'she' in certain scenes.

“Faster, John! Faster!”

“Going as fast as I can!”

“Shit… Nearly there, see the woods behind the hill? Turn to the right here! Careful it’s a sharp one…”

They hid the vehicle in a copse near the creek, jumped down from the driver’s seat and crouched behind rocks, cocking their guns. 

“Think we lost them…” Morgan sighed after several moments of silence, pulling down his bandana. “How could they get there so quickly?”

“Not sure…” John holstered his revolver and reentered the grove to evaluate the damage done to the stagecoach. “Lawmen seem to be on us mighty fast these days…”

“Yeah, seems so…” Arthur joined him, looking pensive. “Wonder why… Let’s clear up the valuables before handing this beauty over to the fence.” And he proceeded to do just that, adding after a few minutes: “Look what I found, Johnny boy!”

John caught the bottle of brandy Arthur had tossed at him in mid-air, twirled it around in his fingers a bit, feeling the patterns on the fine glass.

“Why don’t we have a little treat while we lie low…”

They entered the carriage and threw themselves on the plush seats on opposite sides, facing each other. 

John whistled as he took in as much of the luxurious interior as he could in the dark. “Should fetch a good price…”

“Who knows…” Morgan propped his feet on the seat next to John, one boot crossing the other. “We thought the same about the sheep, remember?”

John opened the bottle and took a sip of the exquisite liquor, wincing as the liquid burnt his innards and warmed his stomach, then tossed it back to Morgan. They drank in silence for a while, Arthur gazing out the window and John watching the spiralling columns of smoke that left the his lips. Sensing the adrenaline rush dissipate after a few sips, he almost instinctively moved a hand to rest it on Morgan’s riding boot, letting it stay there unmoving for a while. Arthur closed his eyes as John began stroking his foot, running curious fingertips over the crinkled brown leather, through which he was soon massaging his ankle, his shin, then reaching a different texture, the jeans, his knee. Morgan remained still. John glided his hand up further to squeeze his thigh gently. Lifting his gaze, he saw her open her eyes, greyish, half-hidden in the shadows, fixed on him with an unknown intent. He leant back as he observed her stub out the cigarette on the dirt-stained pane.

“Sit on my lap,” John heard himself dictate, tapping a hand on his right thigh.

A hushed darkness ruled in the increasingly stifling vehicle for a seemingly unending moment, until Morgan suddenly burst out laughing, the carriage shaking with the force of his exhilaration. 

“What!?” John asked frustratedly, confidence drained. 

“Your Dutch face…” Arthur wiped away tears from the corners of his eyes with his sleeves. “It’s priceless!”

John grimaced in disbelief, brow furrowing. 

“Aw, don’t pout, Marston!” Arthur stood up, let the empty bottle fall onto the floor, rolling and rolling until it stopped at the door, and approached him, straddled him unceremoniously, though John didn’t really feel it anymore now, until, that is, gentle lips brushed against his own, elbows came to rest heavily on his shoulders as fingers curled into his hair. “Don’t try to be someone you’re not, John.” Her voice was tender as she murmured in his ear. “Your simplicity, modesty, even your damned stubbornness… these are all your charming points.”

A sigh escaped his mouth as Arthur ground against him softly, leaning to kiss him deeper, for a longer period of time. He let his hands wander all over her responding body until they came to rest on her rear, which he grasped needily, pulling her closer as he pushed his tongue inside her brandy-flavoured mouth. Years of being chided by Abigail had taught him not to hurry in matters of pleasure and so he took his time in spite of growing more and more impatient by the second. 

“You’ve got pretty eyes, Marston,” Arthur was looking at him again, stroking his scars affectionately with one hand while the other slipped under his clothes to caress his naked chest. “Kind eyes…”

Morgan must be even more drunk than he’d initially thought, John reckoned, but couldn’t really complain if it brought out her soft side. He drew his tongue over her full lips, then moved to kiss her with a passion that was reciprocated with equal measure, driving him to buck into the heat between her thighs. A dejected moan left his throat when he was pushed back, but his dismay was instantly forgotten when confronted by the sight of Morgan stripping off her blue jeans, and... well, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. John gulped as he quickly began unbuttoning his trousers, eyes glued to a grinning Arthur who was now mounting him again. They both sighed as she sat down, her slit resting along his hardening length. He grabbed hold of her buttocks again, naked this time, and slid the middle finger of one hand between her thighs to caress her sex from behind. She gasped and he grunted, both from the pleasure of hearing her surprise as well as the captivating touch of her wetness. 

They continued exploring each other’s bodies for a while as they kissed with careful gentleness. Palming the weight of her exposed breast, he pushed one more finger inside her seeping cunt, moving them ever so slowly, pulling her up a little so his tongue could circle her nipples. 

“Oh, John…”

“Mmmmm...” 

Apparently having lost patience, Arthur moved a hand to position his stiff shaft against her opening and lowered herself until only the head was sheathed.

“Fuck…” John laid his head back against the seat, eyes firmly shut as he concentrated on the bliss of having his cock gripped by the hot, hot, hot passage, gradually engulfing him. “Shit, fuck damn…” He couldn’t hold himself back any longer and bucked up, making Arthur mewl loudly as she clasped his head, tugging mercilessly on his hair. He suckled and nibbled on her engorged nipples again, and oh the lovely sensation…

Her unhurried pace when she began moving eventually drove him almost mad, but he didn’t want to hurt her, so stayed focused, which helped when she guided his fingers to the nub peeking from in between her folds, rubbing them with sweet patience until, having learned his task, he took over. Before long, she was using his chest as leverage to rise and fall in a faster tempo, then even more quickly, her breasts bouncing against his chest. 

In a moment, all senses were lost to him but the overwhelming heat and the maddening tightness, in a second with the added tension of her teeth as it broke his skin. 

“Alm-” John couldn’t finish as Arthur let go of his neck to crush her mouth against his, chewing on his lips, biting his tongue, moving faster and faster. He pinched her clit in retaliation and slipped a rogue finger into her bum and that did it. She immediately clenched around him, moaning and arching, her mouth opening into a delicate o. 

“Arthur…” Calling out her name, John’s vision went white, he bucked wildly into her soft heat until he was spilling his seed, some of it dripping along his cock to pool on the seat. 

He could feel Morgan’s heartbeat against his own as she collapsed on top of him, arms draped limply around his shoulders. He kissed her wherever his mouth happened to be at, on her brow, her flushed cheeks, the hollow of her neck, brushing her hair with his long fingers... 

“What time is it, Marston?” Arthur asked in a haze, after what felt like an hour of them cuddling with a soft John still nestled inside. 

“About eleven…” John tried to focus his eyes on the blurred face of his pocket watch.

“Shit! Come, John, the fence fellow will go to bed soon!”

John woke up the next day with a contented smile. It had been a long while since he’d felt his heart elevated with such feather-light happiness. Then came the past few days, dreamlike in their lack of resemblance to his usual lot... Arthur was more gentle, as if he’d almost forgiven his year-long absence. They had indulged in a couple of small-scale escapades, just the two of them, like the old days, though last night had little in common with the olden days... His smile widened into a relaxed grin as he stepped out of his tent and into the muggy noon air, not even minding the buzzing flies. For once during a job, John realised, he’d felt next to no rivalry with Morgan, which was no doubt helped by Dutch’s absence. Not that Dutch wasn’t around, but he just didn’t seem to be that interested in what they were up to, and it suited John fine. Arthur had resumed sleeping in his own cot next to his wagon, and life seemed to be more serene...

Once he’d had a cup of coffee, John returned to his tent to retrieve his knife when his eyes fell on the triangular corner of a book sticking out of his satchel. _Oh, shit!_ He’d completely forgotten that he had bought a storybook for Jack from Saint-Denis the morning after the... threefold frolics. They had ended up staying the night in the rented room, seeing as Arthur didn’t want to return to the camp in skirts and the shops were closed by the time they had finished making love. John had readily agreed, of course, and in the morning they’d gone shopping in the market near the docks. Morgan had asked John to pick a storybook for Jack, remembering how the little boy had asked for one when they’d gone fishing, while he himself selected a bunch of new clothes. Only it turned out they didn’t have enough money for all the goods, so they had to _persuade_ the grocer to give them a sizable discount.

With a nostalgic hum, John picked up the book and went in search of Jack. He found the boy playing with pebbles and sticks on the lakeshore under the scorching early afternoon sun with no hat on. His mother would have his hide.

“What are you up to, Jack?” He asked the boy, ruffling his hair.

“Just playing…”

“What’s the game?”

“Nothing…” The boy looked bored.

“So,” John was careful to hide the book behind him. “You asked Arthur to get you a storybook?”

“Yeah! When he took me fishing, back at the other camp, before he became a lady.”

“Do you like fishing?”

“Not really…”

“But you like books, don’t you?” John tried not to smirk revealingly. 

“Yeah, lots!” Jack grinned, letting go of the pebbles to open his hands wide. “When I grow up I want to have a BIG book shelf like the ones Uncle Hosea told me about.”

“Here’s the first book for your library then,” John couldn’t bring himself to tease the boy any further and handed him the book, warmth spreading across his chest to see him leap in joy. 

“Thanks, pa!” Jack cried out, then stopped jumping abruptly and there was a sudden hesitance in his expression as he looked up at John to see his reaction.

John patted the boy’s head again, this time with added tenderness. “It’s okay, Jack. Go ahead and read it then before I read it and finish it all so nothing is left for you!”

He watched the screaming boy run to his momma with the book clasped against his chest.

“That was a kind thing to do.”

John turned to smile at Hosea, and was surprised to see him more startled than pleased, as the praise had suggested.

“I’m going fishing to clear my mind a bit. Would you like to come with me?”

“Uh…” John shifted on his feet a little. Last time he’d gone fishing he’d ended up sucking cock. “I’m not much for fishing…” Observing Hosea’s disappointment, he added quickly: “But I’d accompany you, if it’s not far... or in the middle of a lake?”

“No, just on the northern border of Flat Iron.”

“Sure, I’ll come then…” John’s eyebrows descended to their natural place and he sighed in relief.

The ride was relatively peaceful, Old Boy trotting next to Silver Dollar as their riders chatted about prospective jobs and Hosea’s thus far failed experiments with magic. Having arrived at their destination, they let their horses graze nearby and Hosea prepared his rod while John sat on the ground next to a slab of stone. He lit a cigarette, waiting for the old man to join him. The plopping sound of the hook hitting the surface of the water had an unexpectedly calming effect on him. 

“How’s your relationship with Abigail?” Hosea sounded genuinely concerned without being too inquisitive as he lowered himself on the smooth rock. He took a couple of apples from his satchel and handed one to John.

“Fine…” John exhaled, eyeing the shiny red apple. “Though, not really… Haven’t been on speaking terms lately…”

“I know it might not sound ideal to someone with your personality to be responsible for an individual or two...” Hosea began and already John didn’t want to hear the rest. “But I think you should give this a chance.”

John had been expecting a lecture, so the old man’s considerate tone came as a bit of a shock.

“She’s a fine woman, John,” Hosea continued. “And I know for a fact that you have a side to you that’s not so wild or reckless… That you care for both Abigail and Jack, otherwise you wouldn’t have returned.”

“I didn’t return just for their sake,” John mumbled, taking a bite from the juicy apple. 

“But they were deciding factors, I presume?”

“Yeah…” John scratched the nape of his neck, adding after a beat: “I ain’t even sure Jack is mine, Hosea…” This was the first time he’d spoken about this particular doubt with anyone.

“Does it matter?”

John looked up, eyes wide, dark eyebrows knitted. 

“Did it matter to Dutch and I when we took you and Arthur in that you weren’t our sons, even though we think of you as such?” Hosea returned his gaze to the lake. 

John quickly swallowed the piece of fruit in his mouth, his eyes tearing up as the not thoroughly chewed morsel slid painfully down his throat. From recent experience he knew very well that Dutch at least didn’t think of him as a son, unless he had more in common with the Braithwaites than he let show…

“Suppose it doesn’t really matter...” John said at length, lifting his gaze from the reflection of the clouds on the smooth water to their white fluffy origin.

No more words were said on the matter. Soon Hosea was humming a melancholic tune, and John, lying on his back, arms crossed behind his head, was lost in daydreaming about the night before... 

“Speaking of Dutch,” Hosea said after the space it took him to catch two more fishes. “How is his relationship with Miss O’Shea?”

John looked a bit puzzled, not only since the old man hadn’t mentioned Dutch for about half an hour now, but also because of the nature of the question itself. “Shouldn’t you be asking _him_? You’re closest to him...”

“We haven’t really talked about his relationships for a while now,” Hosea huffed, shoulders falling. “I think we’ve come to a point where we agree to disagree on the subject of how he treats his women…” 

John didn’t have a response. Last time he’d seen Molly was around noon. She was sitting in her usual spot, under a tree next to the lake, reading a book. Only on closer inspection he’d realised she wasn’t reading the book and instead was staring contemplatively at a brooch and a bracelet both of which rested on the open pages. 

“Have you seen him recently with Arthur?” 

John coughed after almost choking on a newly lit cigarette. He cast an apprehensive glance at Hosea and was thankful to see his gaze was focused on the line. 

“No…” He lied. Lying to Abigail was not exactly easy and it had taught him to keep his voice level in such circumstances. “Why? Have they argued or something?”

“Something like that…” Hosea sighed and readjusted his hat, before asking a somewhat strange question: “Do you think Arthur wants to turn back?” When John didn’t respond, he continued: “It’s just that I imagined by now he would have searched high and low to find a counter-hex or some such… On the contrary, he doesn’t seem to be bothered at all! Don’t you think so, John? Or is it just my decrepit imagination?”

“I guess…” Well, there were some aspects of the hex he seemed to be enjoying… “Maybe he’s still shocked?”

“Could be…” Hosea shrugged and reeled in the line. “Have you had lunch yet?”

John’s answer was in the negative, so they set up camp and fried some of the fish the old man had mixed with some herbs. After the nice meal John dozed off for a while and was eventually awakened by Hosea when it was almost evening. They packed and returned to the camp. 

On his way to the campfire, John picked up a couple of beer bottles before joining a moping Charles and Sadie who were listening to Escuella playing an even sadder song. He handed one bottle to Mrs Adler and one to Smith, placed Javier’s next to him on the ground and sat himself down on a goat hide.

“So…” Sadie began, opening the bottle with a knife and sipping some. “How did the job go?”

“Job?” John was confused. “You mean the stage?”

“No, the _job_ I was supposed to be a part of?” Sadie explained grudgingly. “Only turned out my part was nearly nonexistent…”

“Ah, that job! Well, yeah... Fine!” John downed several gulps of beer, fixing his eyes on Javier’s dexterous fingers.

“What was your part, Mrs Adler?” Charles asked Sadie.

 _Shit_...

“I had the grand honour of playing the lady’s maid, Mr Smith,” Sadie took another angry swig. “Got Morgan all nice and dressed, and guess what? That was it!”

“Dressed for what?” Charles knitted his eyebrows, playing with the unopened bottle in one hand.

“A special job Dutch had planned,” John quickly explained. 

“ _You will play a very important part, Mrs Adler_...” Sadie intoned in a low-pitched voice.

“What was the job?” Charles was addressing John now.

“Just a… a small thing really… in Saint-Denis...” John muttered, then spying Kieran walking by, he hollered at him: “Hey, Duffy! We need to talk about something important!” 

“We do!?” Duffy squeaked in surprise.

Immediately John got up and clapped a hand behind the man’s back as he pushed them both away from the campfire and towards the lake. The last thing he heard was Charles’s low ‘hmmm’, Sadie’s chortle, and the abrupt but temporary cessation of music…

“What can I do for you, Mister Marston?” Kieran kept eyeing him nervously.

“Ah… Just…” John struggled to find something to say. “Make sure you take special care of Old Boy, will you?”

“Sure…” Kieran waited and when nothing else came, asked: “That’s it?”

“Yeah…” John nodded, squaring his shoulders. “You be good now! Don’t flirt too much with Mary-Beth!” 

“I never!” The man swore. “I have great respect for Miss Gaskill…” 

John chuckled and shook his head as he watched Duffy slip away. Digging his hands in his pockets, he realised he’d forgotten to donate his share of last night’s take to the money box. He made his way behind Dutch’s tent and had just opened the lid when he heard voices coming from the other side. Dutch, Arthur, Pearson and Micah seemed to be discussing something with an oddly excited Pearson saying some shit about tigers... Listening closely he noticed they were planning to meet Colm O’Driscoll to negotiate a truce, which sounded like the stupidest idea he’d ever heard, and Morgan seemed to agree. In the end, Micah appeared to have managed to convince Dutch to take a reluctant Morgan with them.

“She doesn’t even have to lift a finger, just stand guard while we parley with Colm,” Bell was saying. “Seeing as what state she’s in now, guarding is the only thing she’s good for, eh girl? Not so big and intimidating anymore, are you?” 

John could almost hear the screaming sound of Arthur’s quiet rage which corresponded to the rapidly rising temperature of his own blood. How could Dutch stay silent and let Micah go on with his drivel? He was about to volunteer to go in Arthur’s place, when it occurred to him Morgan might not like the idea, feel even more humiliated or something… But at the same time-

“John…” 

He turned to see Abigail approaching slowly, an unexpected smile etched on her lips. 

“Is it true you bought Jack a storybook?” 

“Yeah…” John responded bashfully, carefully closing the money box. They walked on a southwards trail and he almost jumped when Abigail secretly snuck her hand into his. 

“I’ve been thinking about the future, John,” She began calmly. “I don’t want to live like this forever… As soon as I’m able, I’m going to take Jack and find us a nice place to call home. Find decent work, send him to school…” She turned to look at John. “I really want him to become somebody one day.”

“Sounds like a good plan…”

“I’d like you to be part of it,” Abigail explained when he didn’t add anything else. “But the caring you, the you that carves toys for Jack and buys him storybooks. Not the you that left for a year... You get what I mean?”

“Yeah,” he squeezed her hand gently. “I get it… I think I’d like that, Abigail, but I just... need some time... to figure things out. Is that okay with you?” He gazed into her big beautiful eyes.

“Sure… Just don’t take too long, John Marston,” She smiled impishly, squeezing his hand back. “I’ve got many suitors you know… Mister Bell is pretty keen…”

“WHAT!?”


	12. Spento è quel sol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dutch’s POV.
> 
> Raging Dutch, dramaaa, and a bit of good old gunplay.

_I’ll leave, for good_...

And the ungrateful bitch had gone and done exactly what she’d threatened she would do… As if she had a say in the matter... As if it was _her_ choice whether she could stay or leave, eat or sleep, breathe or perish! How _dare_ she!? And she didn’t even disappear like she usually did, on pretense of going hunting or some other shit… No, she had to vanish in the middle of a mission… Or maybe not even that, who knew, she might have left from the very beginning, leaving him and Micah exposed to the mercy of Colm’s snipers… At first, when she didn’t show up at their appointed rendezvous, he thought she might have gone straight back to the camp. He wasn’t pleased, but, well… She was not at the camp, and for the first night and the day that followed he maintained his composure. On the second day he - quite unwisely in retrospect - allowed himself to brood and fret, a state of which he was cured by the morning of the third day of Arthur’s absence, and now being the evening of the same day Dutch felt thoroughly indifferent... 

“Mr Escuella. How do you do?” He donned his most charming smile, tone cheerful, as he happened upon the young man during his stroll through the woods surrounding the camp.

“Dutch,” Javier smiled back and tipped his hat. 

He stood next to the boy, who appeared to be on guard duty, and folded his hands across his chest. Of course, his first choice for sending someone to look for Arthur would be Charles, who had excellent tracking skills, but with the recent tension between them he had a bad feeling about sending the man. Escuella would do a decent job, Dutch mused, dark eyebrows meeting in solemn contemplation.

“I have a task for…”

 _Who’ll break whom, I wonder_... 

“Never mind, my boy.” He placed a firm hand on Javier’s shoulder and let it rest there. “You look lost in thought. Is everything alright?”

“Sure, boss…” Javier fidgeted a little but came into a place of rest eventually. “Hope you won’t mind my asking, but are you and Arthur… together, now?”

Dutch’s sharp gaze swiftly spun towards the young man. “Why do you ask, Javier?”

“It’s just that, until recently, I thought he only liked women…” He explained tentatively and Dutch could feel the taut muscles beneath his grasp warming slightly, though there were no signs of agitation or self-consciousness on Escuella’s face when he turned to fix intelligent brown eyes on him. “Is Morgan interested in men as well?” 

The boy was smart alright, Dutch thought fondly, clapping a heavy hand on his back. He didn’t answer the impertinent question beyond a cryptic smile, however, and let his hand drop by his side as he took his leave in a measured pace, a smile lingering on his lips until his ears were assaulted on being hailed by the ambulant ruckus that was Reverend Swanson.

“Mister Van der Linde! Mister Van der Linde!” Swanson’s unbalanced frame followed his voice in invading Dutch’s personal space. 

He caught hold of the man’s limbs just in time to prevent him from falling headfirst to the ground. 

“Get a hold of yourself, Swanson,” Dutch snapped, almost in disgust, but strangely enough he still harboured a sliver of respect for the reverend which nevertheless didn’t extend to the man’s religion.

“Do you know what _addiction_ is?” The Reverend wailed, clutching at his shoulders. 

“Why don’t you enlighten me, friend...” Dutch grunted, trying to pry himself free from the man’s stinking grasp, pushing him back and propping him against a tree.

“It’s a form of _greed_!” Swanson sobbed, sliding down the bark till his bum hit the dirt. “ _And they lay wait for their own blood; they lurk privily_... _So are the ways of every one that is greedy of gain; which taketh away_...”

The relevantly good mood he had obtained from the conversation with Escuella vanished into thin air as Dutch observed the pitifully mumbling husk of a man fall into a state of torpor, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his wrinkled fingers. Readjusting his clothes while he walked back towards his tent after the sobering encounter, he wondered if Swanson didn’t have a point. Intoxicating obsessions were not something he could waste his precious time on...

Just as dark thoughts were about to jeopardise the clarity of his mind, he found a way to distract himself when his eyes fell on a folded newspaper on Strauss’s desk and he recalled he hadn’t read that day’s news. Hosea was usually the person who brought him newspapers and with him gone on yet another fool’s errand, Dutch already found himself in a state of mild disorganisation, for which he admonished himself. He headed for the desk and unfolded the paper, scanning the headlines, looking in particular for articles celebrating the capture of wanted outlaws. 

“Herr Van der Linde, might we have a word?” Strauss had somehow appeared out of nowhere, but at least he was courteous enough not to herald his arrival with a shout. “About the accounts…”

“Of course.” The accounts were only Dutch’s favourite topic when they carried positive figures, and judging from Strauss’s expression that didn’t seem to be the case, but the man was always reasonable and so he humoured him. “Any problems?”

“Not precisely,” Strauss began. “However, I believe our clients’ debts are accumulating and… Well, we need to collect them or risk our reputation… When, might I enquire, will Frau Morgan return?”

He had expected the question but not the inky-black heaviness that infused his chest at hearing it. “I don’t know, Mr Strauss. Perhaps...” _Never_. “Perhaps you could ask Marston. I’m sure he’d would do an equally adequate job.”

“Very well, I’ll ask him them. Good da-”

“Or rather don’t,” Dutch added quickly. “I might have some use for him myself… But do ask either Smith or Esquella.”

He watched Strauss nod and put the newspaper down, then strolled towards his tent. Sitting on the crate positioned in the front outside, he lit a cigar in hope of recovering a breath of tranquility in the soothing taste of tobacco.

“Dutch, I need to speak with you…” 

Apparently peace only lasted for half an hour at the most in this neck of the goddamn woods… He addressed Molly without lifting his eyes from his rings. “What about, Miss O’Shea?”

“Are you okay?” She sounded concerned, which only served to irk him even more. 

“Yes.” He frowned. “You said you wanted to talk. What is it about? Not another trinket you’ve seen and are dying to own, I hope?”

“No, Dutch.” Concern was immediately replaced by pride and impatience. “It’s a very important matter. I… You need to make a decision. Could we speak in the tent please?”

“Say what you have to say, Molly. I have little patience for your dithering at present.” He took a drag from his cigar, filling his lungs with the consoling smoke, not at all appreciating to be told what he _needed_ to do, not least by a hysterical creature like her.

“Dithering?” She was pissed now and he felt somewhat soothed. “I just want to have a private talk with you, Dutch! Or is that forbidden as well? Do I have to book an appointment to steal a bit of your highness’s time!?”

God when she ran her mouth like that… “Either say it _now_ or begone, Molly! I’ll give you to the count of three. One, two-”

“FINE!” She exclaimed. “I’ll say it for every one of them fools to hear what Dutch van der Linde is really like!”

“Tell me then, what am I _really_ like? Go on, Miss O’Shea!” Dutch stood up, his glare brimming with fire as he took a step in her direction.

“I can’t stand this anymore, Dutch!” She screamed, walking backwards as he advanced with menacing slowness. “One day you are this kind and handsome gentleman… _Oh, Molly, my darling little angel_... and the next you turn into some _monster_! I don’t know what to believe anymore… I’m not your plaything, Dutch, to use when you please and ignore when you’re bored!”

“So… I lack manners and, what, I’m childish?” Dutch smirked without halting his steps. “Have you looked into the mirror lately, my dear? Oh but that’s all you ever do, all the goddamn ti-”

“You must choose Dutch!” She hissed, scowling, green eyes shining in fury, and almost tripped on a stool as she backed away towards the chuckwagon. “Either change this vile behaviour or I’ll leave you!”

“You’ll do _what_?” He narrowed his eyes, exhaling smoke from his nostrils as he gritted his teeth in rage, tossing the cigar aside.

“I’ll leave you, Dutch,” She was visibly scared but suddenly stood her ground. “I swear to god I-”

Before knowing what he was doing he’d slapped her hard enough to send her toppling to the ground. At first, Dutch was startled by his own savagery, until all of a sudden he was overcome by all the suppressed anger of the past few days, erupting forth in volcanic ferocity from the dark abyss that was his soul. In a moment, he was on her, a wrathful hand locked in her flame-red tresses, the other raised to strike again when it was grabbed from behind and he was turned away from the screaming woman to be punched in the face, which send him staggering backwards. 

“Are you alright, Miss O’Shea?” Grimshaw was kneeling beside Molly, comforting the weeping girl.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!” Dutch roared, hauling the man up by the collar. “How _dare_ you touch her?” 

In a second his fist connected to Grimshaw’s abdomen, making the man double over in pain. Before Dutch had a chance to bestow the insolent wretch a fierce kick, he was seized from behind by Lenny and Javier, while Bill and Charles held Grimshaw back. 

“Let go!” Dutch barked, panting as he shook himself free. He straightened his waistcoat and ran a hand through his hair, ignoring the hostile glances projected in his direction from all around. 

“What are you looking at the boss like that for?” Micah stood to his left. “ _His_ woman, _his_ business… Now _scram_!”

“That’s enough, Micah…” Dutch murmured, taking a few steps back as he watched the scene, almost sacred in its composition, with Miss O’Shea draped over Grimshaw’s knee, all the others hovering over them in silent sympathy. Wiping traces of blood off the corner of his mouth, he turned around and strode towards the pier, only realising Bell was still following him when his footsteps resounded on the wooden walkway. 

“Women, boss…” Micah shrugged and sighed heavily, sitting on a pillar. 

Dutch shook his head in the negative when Bell offered him a cheap cigarette and listened to the man rave about what violent things he’d like to do to women who provoked his ire, all the while thinking he’d much rather contemplate the beautiful sunset without the man’s annoying buzz in his ears. Micah seemed to have gotten the idea since he abruptly fell silent and spoke no more until the sun had fully set. 

“Look here, boss, I have some good news,” Micah was grinning when he turned his attention towards him. “Seeing as that Colm business didn’t go so well, for which I blame myself fully and apologise profusely…” 

“Weren’t your fault, son,” Dutch waved a dismissive hand before the man could bow even lower.

“So I went and made myself useful looking for a tip-off, and found one at last. Smells of profit, Dutch...”

“Oh?”

“A cargo train,” Micah explained excitedly. “But there’s gonna be ammunition on board at least two carriages. Even if we don’t use them all, we can sell the surplus.”

“Go on,” Dutch raised an eyebrow, his interest peaked. Finally someone he could rely on to find a good lead instead of whining about their personal problems...

They spoke at length about the job and who would be suitable to take along. Bell suggested Escuella and Marston, and Dutch added Williamson and young Summers to the list of participants. It was a train job, after all, the more the merrier... He’d also been planning a possible raid on either the Braithwaite or the Grey manor, once they knew who had the rumoured money, that is, and they could definitely use more ammunition for that gig. 

Somewhat refreshed after the conversation with Bell, he sent him off to collect more solid information and headed for John’s tent to discuss the train job with him. On entering he saw the boy seated on the cot, fastening his gun-belt around his slender waist. His satchel, filled to the brim with beer bottles and snacks, lay at his feet on the floor. 

“Going somewhere?”

“Gonna take Abigail for a short ride, wanna show her the view of the moon from top of the hill to the north of the lake.” 

“Is this the right time for such an outing?” Dutch placed his hands on his hips. 

“Why not?”

“Don’t be daft, John, with all the Pinkertons about you wouldn’t want to endanger Miss Roberts and Jack.” He felt himself growing somewhat irritated again. “And it’s pretty windy, bet it’ll rain soon with all the clouds gathering.”

“We haven’t seen Pinkertons about for weeks now, Dutch,” John insisted. “Besides, we’re not taking Jack and you told me to spend more time with her yourself. Now you’re chan-”

He reached and grasped the boy’s jaw securely in the palm of his hand. John went silent, the look in his eyes adapting to the shifting atmosphere. Dutch stared down at him for a while, sipping his moistening gaze as one would a precious vintage until the boy blushed and closed his eyes, at which point he bent and ran a hand over the outline of John’s gun-belt, pulling out the Cattleman.

“Hmmm…” 

Dutch twisted the gun in his hand, to the left and to the right, flipped the cylinder open to see if it was full - it was - then proceeded to run his eyes over the engraved details, his gaze moving seamlessly to John’s face, taking in the scarred details, as if willing to etch them in memory, until it came to rest on the slightly-parted lips, over which he pressed the barrel, brushing it ever so gently on the cracked skin, grinning as he heard Marston’s almost inaudible moan. In response, Dutch squeezed his fingers to force John’s mouth open a bit more, holding and not pushing the metalic tip in-between his teeth, humming low when he felt himself hardening at the sight of the boy’s tongue reaching shyly to feel around the barrel, daring eyes fixing on his, trembling hands gripping the edge of the cot so tight the knuckles started to go white.

Slowly Dutch pushed more of the revolver inside while propping a knee between Marston’s thighs, rubbing against his crotch as his other hand took a firm hold of the nape of his neck. He held the gun still once a few good inches were lodged inside the soft warmth of the boy’s mouth, cocked the hammer, moved his index finger to rest it loosely on the trigger, chuckling amusedly as the boy whimpered and bucked against his knee.

“Loyalty, John, that’s the only thing that matters…” He cooed in a low, tender tone. “Above all, you are loyal to _me_ , do you understand?”

The boy nodded, or tried to.

“Good,” Dutch pulled back, first his knee, then the revolver, uncocked it and slipped it back into the holster, on the way stealing a messy kiss from a mewling John, who was sprawled on the cot, wrists pinned above his head, breathless, by the time he was done with him. 

He was about to get up when needy fingers clung to his waistcoat and drew him onto the boy’s reclined body again. The unexpected pull made him lose his balance for a moment and his thigh now pressed on top of the Marston’s groin with all his weight. John gasped and twisted a leg around his, holding tight. Dutch hummed in wicked delight as he dipped his head to taste the hopeful mouth with an unforeseen volume of want, devouring the metal-flavoured tongue. His hands, until then gently caressing the boy’s flanks, grew imperious in their demands as he rubbed his length against the boy’s. Marston latched his arms around his shoulders as Dutch nudged his head to the side to bite his neck. The same neck he had saved from the gallows, hence _his_ property by all rights. 

“Dutch…” John whined, which was not unusual at all under the circumstances, yet he hadn’t anticipated what he whispered next: “Arthur says I’m in love with you…”

Immediately Dutch went still, unclenched his canines from the savoury skin, and stared at Marston with an almost offended expression which nevertheless gained a measure of paternal softness as he witnessed the look in the boy’s eyes. 

“What does that mean to you, son?”

John didn’t respond, merely stroked his back and shoulders with long thin fingers, then looked away.

“Does it mean you want me to fuck you?” Dutch murmured into the boy’s ear, adding pressure to the renewed movements of his clothed member. It was with a refined quality of satisfaction that he wondered how he should mould the meaning of love in the young man’s mind. “Or does it mean you want to do anything I ask of you, anytime, even if it’s to your detriment, just to please me?” With every two or three words he planted kisses along John’s throat, tenderly, branding the desired definition into his very soul. His breathing grew haphazard just imagining the possibilities this novel bit of information had to offer. His cock, meanwhile, was leaking in excitement, more from mental than physical stimulation, he suspected.

“It means…” John gasped, rubbing back against him with decreased precision and increased necessity. “I think… it means you ain’t perfect, Dutch… not like Hosea…”

Now that response Dutch had definitely not expected, so much so that for a moment he thought he might burst out laughing. He tried to shrug the image of a smug Hosea out of his mind and instead focused his regard on Marston with the same expression an asylum doctor no doubt had when analysing patients. 

“I mean,” John struggled to explain, clinging to him again, both with arms and eyes. “Like you need me... to make you perfect, and I like that… that you need me...”

“Hah!” The abrupt laugh, if it could be called that, left Dutch’s throat without his having any control over it. The boy had either gone mad or was on the path of becoming a prophet of some sort. Maybe he shouldn’t have read Miller to him… At the same time, he sounded so much like the other one, though the other one would say such things with a mischievous intent, to tease or to challenge, knowing full well it would drive him insane… “You may be right boy, I do need someone, I suppose, but you’re wrong in assuming it has to be you.”

John whined and wriggled as he kissed him hard, moving a hand to unbutton the young man’s jeans and then his own trousers, drawing out both their cocks and holding them together fast in the grasp of his right hand. The hot sensation of Marston’s prick against his own made him growl, especially as he felt the smooth touch of the pre-cum slicked rings along his shaft.

“Is it Morgan?” John moaned, bucking into his hand as he tried and failed to hook the other leg behind his thigh.

Dutch didn’t respond, he simply sped up his pace with animalistic mechanicality, fingers dripping wet from their mixed pre-cum. All his attention was diverted now to the ache building in his loins, barely registering John’s little kisses on various points on his face, neck, chest... His howl of ecstasy when he orgasmed was lost against the loud clash of thunder, the steady sound of rain accompanying their pants as they both collapsed on the cot, Dutch on top of John. 

They didn’t have much time to bask in their post-climactic pleasure, however, as it was cut short by the sound of a shrill scream echoing outside. Immediately both men jumped up and fixed their clothes, then stumbled their way outside the tent and ran towards the voice, guns ready to fire. 

Against the foggy backdrop a white saddleless horse stood, its noble head curved protectively over the figure of a woman kneeling next to its front hoofs, looking with sheer horror at a body on the ground.

Thunder rolled in the distant.


	13. I am all things strange and bold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bill’s POV.
> 
> A spooky intermission with Williamson and friends...

It was raining again today. Bill sighed as he patted Cain’s head, playing with the dog’s soft ears while the two of them sat on his bedroll under the shade. At least the flies and the mosquitoes didn’t pester him as much as they usually did, but the camp ground was all muddy with puddles forming here and there, making it difficult to do any chores, not that many were trying... With Morgan indisposed and the boss nowhere in sight, everyone had become even more lethargic. Even Grimshaw was mostly hanging out with Miss O’Shea and didn’t bother hounding anyone with constant demands. Usually Bill would have welcomed such a respite, but he was getting really bored after a few days of doing absolutely nothing. He didn’t even feel like going to the town in search of a chance for a casual roll in the hay. He’d tried it a couple of times with his new body, but none of the encounters had ended well. He mostly got approached by men he didn’t fancy, and if he decided to give it a try the sex was often awful, with the fellows just pumping away and dozing off afterwards… The worst part was that before the change he had begun befriending this fetching guy who was a regular at a saloon in Saint Denis and the boy actually seemed to be interested in him - if he wasn’t a thief or some such, which Bill strongly suspected but didn’t really mind. And yet last time he visited the saloon the guy didn’t even look at him, let alone recognise him, and it broke Bill’s heart to see the young man chatting away cheerfully with some other fellow… Jim, was his name, just Bill’s type when he felt like topping: bright big puppy-dog eyes, cute tiny ears, moustache still growing, slender frame, a sweet bundle of nerves when excited about something...

“That was a mighty deep sigh!” Miss Jones was staring at him, arms akimbo. “Feeling blue again, Williamson?”

She was all dressed up like she was going somewhere nice and was soon joined by equally well-groomed Misses Jackson and Gaskill. 

“Where are you girls off to?” He asked, stroking Cain’s back and tail.

“There is a fortune-teller who lives at the caravan camp next to Rhodes,” Miss Tilly explained. “Mister Trelawny has somehow managed to convince us to go and have our fortunes read. Reckon he gets a cut from the profits...”

“Wanna come with us?” Mary-Beth was all smiles and looked at him friendly like.

“Have my future told?” He scratched his ear. “Nah, what’s the point… Besides it’s raining.”

“The rain’s gonna stop soon,” Karen got hold of his arm and pulled him up. “Come on, it’ll be fun! And Grimshaw won’t be on our backs if we have you with us.”

“Okay…” Bill huffed, and puffed, and pulled on his overcoat, fastened his gun-belt and put on his hat. “Wagon or horses?”

“Horses!” Mary-Beth chirped. “Feels more free that way.” 

The girls asked Duffy to saddle one of the Kentucky Saddlers for Miss Gaskill, while Bill and Karen prepared Brown Jack and Old Belle. Everyone’s attention turned to Miss Jackson when she asked Kieran to saddle Morgan’s horse for her. Apparently he’d asked her to exercise the mare if she could spare the time. Duffy obliged without asking any questions and soon they were all mounted and ready to leave.

“Why don’t you come with us?” Miss Jones addressed Duffy. “No one’ll miss you. Imagine you must be dying to get out of here for a bit…”

“What if Dutch finds out?” Kieran shifted about, casting glances in the direction of the boss’s closed tent.

“Is he even alive!?” Karen chortled, pulling on Old Belle’s reins. “Haven’t seen him around for what, a week now?”

“Since Arthur’s return…” Mary-Beth whispered carefully. 

“Right then, Mister Duffy, are you coming with us or not?”

The rain had diminished into a light drizzle and the early evening sun was shining warmly from beneath dispersing clouds once the five of them left the camp with Cain in tow, heading for Rhodes in a walking pace to make sure Miss Tilly’s mount had no objections to her new rider. 

“What’s her name?” Kieran gingerly asked Tilly, gesturing at the mare. 

“Yeah, what is it?” Karen joined in. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard Arthur calling her anything but his gurrrl...”

“Me neither, come to think of it,” Bill confirmed.

Tilly shook her head. “He said he hasn’t chosen a name for her yet, still thinking about it.”

“Bet he wants to choose something real special,” Miss Gaskill mused.

“Bet her name is Countess and he’s too embarrassed to say!” Karen chuckled. 

“We should give her a name maybe, while Miss Tilly’s riding her at least,” Kieran suggested to everyone’s surprise, since he wasn’t one to make suggestions usually. 

“Why not?” Bill nodded, this could be fun. “I say we go for White Jill!”

“Pffft… So original!” Karen reflected a bit, then grinned mischievously. “How about… Mary?” 

“No! Then if we call her...” Kieran objected, then blushed halfway through explaining his reason for objecting. “I say Milk… or err… Frost!”

“Frost sounds nice…” Mary-Beth looked somewhat amused at Duffy’s reaction but shook her head lightly. “I prefer Blanchefleur, a maiden from Arthurian legends! And it means ‘white flower’ in French. What could be better?”

“You folk don’t see beyond colour, do you?” Tilly rolled her eyes. “Think about it, Mister Morgan called his previous horse after a legendary queen. He’d name this one after some grand queen or heroine too… Cleopatra? Or maybe Esther? Or Joan of Arc? Or-”

“I still think he named her Countess,” Karen interrupted. “But we aren’t looking for a name Arthur would have chosen. We want something for just us five… Blanchefleur is a mouthful. Milk is bland and Frost reminds me of Colter. Don’t even think about White Jill! Let’s call her-”

“Moonshine!” Bill exclaimed. 

“Hell yeah!” Miss Jones accepted vehemently. 

“I suppose it ain’t bad…” Mary-Beth giggled.

“Fine!” Tilly shrugged.

And Kieran didn’t have a chance to either agree or disagree since just then they arrived at their destination. 

The caravan dwellers didn’t look too friendly, though they didn’t look unfriendly either. They spotted the fortune-teller’s wagon easily after Trelawny’s description of it and made the mistake of entering all at the same time which scared the poor woman half to death. She was surprisingly young for her profession, Bill thought, but didn’t pay it much mind otherwise. They were asked to enter one by one. The ladies went in first and then Kieran and finally it was Bill’s turn. 

“You have great luck written in your future, madam!” The woman began, after spreading some strange big colourful cards in front of her which she’d made Bill shuffle first. “The man you think is in love with you will eventually abandon you for another…” She flipped another card. “But fear not! In your great misery, when you have no one to turn to and are left on your own to take care of a crappy farm, you’ll discover that you’re sitting on an…” She flipped another. “Oilfield!” Then another. “And your second love will be your last and best. Together you’ll have eight children, three of them will die before you.”

Bill waited for a while. “That’s it!?” 

“Yeah,” The woman puffed at her pipe, voice suddenly gone from mysterious to hoarse. “Money, devoted lover, loads of children,” She counted on her fingers. “What more do you want, sugar?” 

Bill’s disappointment must have shown on his face when he left the wagon, since the girls were on him in a moment. 

“Are you gonna die in childbirth too?” Karen asked, laughing wickedly. “Glad at least I wasn’t the only one with the shitty fortune!”

“Kieran is gonna marry his sweetheart and live happily ever after...” Mary-Beth explained quickly. “And I’m going to travel to Europe and get abducted by an Ottoman pirate who’ll take me to his harem and make me his wife by force!”

“What’s so good about that!?” Bill wondered why she was so excited. 

“Oh, he’s in truth a prince and very handsome…”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Miss Tilly poked Miss Gaskill with her index finger playfully. “Guess what Mister Williamson? I’m gonna become a famous inventor and create the world's first mechanical flying goose! She got a bit upset when I told her I'm not particularly fond of geese… What about you?”

“I’ll have eight kids and become an oil magnate…”

“Well then, Mister Rich-sir,” Karen grinned. “Why don’t you take us all to dinner? There is a parlour house in Rhodes.”

“Why me!?”

“You still have some money from the bank job, right?”

“And you don’t!?”

“Nah, I need to save it for my miserable future…”

In spite of his grumpy appearance, Bill was having a fun time and so he didn’t argue any further. On their way to Rhodes, Duffy suggested they go on a picnic instead, which was greatly welcomed by all, especially Miss Jackson who wasn’t sure what sort of welcome she’d receive at the parlour. They bought provisions at the grocer’s and set out for a secret awesome destination Bill had chosen.

“An old battlefield… Seriously, Bill?” Karen tutted as she dismounted Old Belle. 

The rest of them didn’t mind the location, however, and it would take too long to look for a new place so they spread a blanket not far from the old church and were soon engaged in eating, drinking and singing merrily until the sun had set and the glade was illuminated by silvery soft moonlight.

“So, Mister Williamson, how do you like being a lady?” Miss Gaskill asked, smoking a cigarette.

“Heh, a lady!” Bill already felt his cheeks warming from the alcohol, though he’d been careful not drink too much so he wouldn’t forget the evening come tomorrow. “I miss my beard,” He lifted his hand from Cain’s head for a moment to touch his smooth face. “But it’s good to have hair on my head again.”

“So, how different is it exactly?” Mary-Beth’s gaze became extremely focused for a tipsy girl. “I’m curious to know, for example, if you can describe how a man feels compared to how a woman feels, and if the carnal pleasure is any different, or-”

“Oh, no!” Tilly intoned dramatically, laughing. “Mary-Beth’s in her writer mode again…” 

“I ain’t sure, Miss Gaskill,” Bill took a sip of beer and a bite of cheese. “I ain’t never been a full woman, so I can’t tell. My feelings haven’t changed or anything, it’s just the…” He tried but couldn’t find the words he was looking for. “I ain’t much for deep conversation, maybe you should ask Morgan...”

Bill belatedly realised he should have mentioned Morgan, from whose predicament they were all escaping in a way, judging by now the fallen faces and wrinkled brows. _Drat!_ This was supposed to be a fun night, and he’d gone and ruined it...

“Do you think they…” Tilly began in her trademark straight-forward manner, but was hushed by Karen.

“Don’t Tilly, I don’t want to think about it!” Miss Jones looked surprisingly distressed considering how strong she always appeared to be compared to the other girls.

“What else could they have done…” Bill wondered out loud, his gaze fixed on the tip of Cain’s twitching nose. “I mean, they’re O’Driscolls after all…” 

Suddenly all eyes were on Duffy.

“I wouldn’t know!” The poor man squeaked. “Please don’t ask me… I’ve never seen them, you know, doing that sort of…” He looked to Mary-Beth for help.

“He had blood all over him,” Miss Gaskill explained solemnly. She’d been the first to see Arthur. “Not sure if all of it were his though…” She looked up with hopeful eyes, which suddenly went wide in shock as her hand jumped to her mouth and she gasped. “I swear I just saw something in that window there!” 

They all turned to look at the part of the church she was pointing at. Cain raised his head and barked. 

“Could it be a ghost?” Kieran asked, visibly perturbed.

“Ghost!?” Bill cried out in a hushed tone. He didn’t like ghosts, at all… “You’re joking, right?”

“I’ve heard ghosts haunt battlefields…” Tilly spoke mysteriously, at the same time looking terribly excited. “Let’s go have a look!”

“Why!?” Bill whined in objection. “Let’s not! We should head back...”

“Oh, come on! Be a brave girl now!” Karen teased him and before he could say anything else they were all heading for the church.

“Stay with me, boy…” Bill murmured to Cain before following them reluctantly. 

They spread out in groups of three - Cain included - and Bill was relieved that his group at least didn’t come across any unearthly beings. His relief was short-lived, however, when a loud shriek resounded in the ruins. Bill, Karen and Cain ran to the other side of the structure.

“It spoke to me!” Duffy was shaking like a leaf. “Called me by my name!”

“Who spoke to you!?”

“Told me Colm’s name is actually pronounced Collum or Callum or something like that…”

“Wait, did he have an Irish accent?” Karen raised an eyebrow.

Duffy nodded and Bill cocked the revolver he had pulled out on hearing the scream. “An O’Driscoll ghost!?”

“You girls heard this too?” Miss Jones addressed Tilly and Mary-Beth who for some reason looked as if they were trying very hard not to laugh. Karen sighed and shouted: “SEAN! You get out here this moment!”

The lad was greeted by a wagging Cain, whom he played with briefly before joining them. “Mister MacGuire greets you all!”

“How long have you been following us?” Karen asked him, unimpressed.

“I saw you in Rhodes and thought to myself since you lot are so unfair as to not invite poor old Sean along, I’d have some fun at your expense… Was going to put on a fire bottle show at first but kind-hearted as I am, felt pity for- Ay! What was that for?”

Sean robbed the spot on his shin where Karen had kicked and they all returned to the picnic scene to finish the rest of the food - after killing some curious rats first - while Sean talked and talked and talked, and Bill had nearly fallen asleep when he was shaken awake.

“Wha…” He looked about him in confusion.

“We’re going ghost hunting in the bayou.” Sean explained, grinning. “You coming or going back to the camp?” 

The bastards had gathered everything and some had already mounted their horses. There was no arguing with the crazy lot and Bill didn’t want to be the one who returns to the camp first and has to explain where the others are and get hassled by a fuming Grimshaw… so he tagged along. Kieran was riding Moonshine now, since he feared she might get jumpy in the swamps and throw Miss Tilly off, and the latter was riding Branwen. They rode for a good while until they were surrounded by all manners of ominous trees and unfamiliar sounds coming from deep shadowy places. Bill rode in the back, farthest away from Sean in the front so as not to hear the ghost stories the idiot wouldn’t stop telling. Turns out Kieran was right and no sooner than the first alligator had hissed at them than the mare bucked him off her back and bolted away… 

“Moonshine! Moonshine!”

For heaven’s sake, did Duffy really think the mare would respond… Bill dismounted anyway and walked with the boy in a show of sympathy, feeling a little bad for how he had initially treated him at Horseshoe. Sean and the girls followed them on their horses at a distance as MacGuire went on and on this time about a tiny church for tiny people in the swamps…

“Moonshine!”

“Look what we have here!”

Bill’s hand immediately flew to his gun, though he didn’t pull it out yet. When the three mounted figures came closer he recognised them for Greys by the lantern light. _Shit_...

“You folk must be mad for two reasons,” One of them explained. “First, to think you’ll find any customers for your illegal merchandise in a swamp in the middle of the night, and sec-”

“Except for them Night Folk, hehe…” Another interjected.

“As I was saying: Second, since you think you can get away with peddling shine in Grey territory.”

“It ain’t your territory,” Bill opened his big mouth and regretted it instantly. 

“Do we know you from somewhere, Miss? You look familiar…”

Bill tried to hide his face beneath his hat, though there was no way they could recognise him, and was surprised when Duffy came to his rescue. The others seemed to have wisely stopped in the background. 

“We ain’t selling shine, good sirs… It’s the name of our horse!” Duffy explained, smiling awkwardly. “See, her name is Moonshine.”

“What’s the problem here?”

He had judged too soon. MacGuire was already standing at their side. Bill took hold of Cain’s nape and pulled the growling dog behind him. 

“Hey, I sure know _you_!” One the Greys pointed at Sean with his gun. “You’re that fellow who came with the wagon the night the tobacco crops caught fire!”

It took no more than a minute or two before guns were pulled out and shots fired and screams heard and smell of gunpowder filled the air... The result: Bill & Co: 1 - Greys: 0. The only casualty was Kieran’s hat and the tip of Sean’s ear. Karen holstered her pistol and jumped down her horse to help them drag the bodies to the alligators’ feeding grounds. 

“Well, told you we’d find ghosts tonight…” Sean smiled cheekily, wiping sweat off his brow. “Only we had to release them first!”

“Oh, shut up… Let’s get Moonshine and get going...” Bill grumbled but went silent along with the rest of them as they saw a suspending light approaching.

Third time's the charm, or the curse, or whatever, Bill reckoned, gingerly stepping behind Duffy. 

“A dollar for your fortune…” The ghost turned out to be a no less creepy old woman. “Roving soothsayer at your service!”

“Thanks, but we already got our fortunes told today,” Bill explained, waving at the woman to go away.

“By who? The caravan wench? She’s a scam. I’m the real deal.” And as if to prove herself, she added: “For example, I know that you for one are not what you appear to be, _sir_...”

They looked at each other. It was Sean who spoke first.

“Well, I haven’t had my fortune told on account of being left out by this bunch of ungrateful cretins who call themselves friends, so tell me mine!”

“Money upfront pretty please.”

Bill paid the woman six dollars when it turned out the others didn’t have any money.

To Sean, she said: “Young man, be careful not to walk in the front.”

To Kieran: “Beware of Dutch ghost stories. You won’t be as lucky as Rip Van Winkle.”

To Karen: “You will meet your lover sooner than you think.”

To Tilly: “You will be the happiest, by conventional standards at least.”

To Mary-Beth: “You will be the most famous, but no one will know your name.”

To Bill: “You will be betrayed by one you call your brother, but you will betray him first.”

They all remained silent for an extended period of time, not even looking at each other, as they tried to figure out the woman’s cryptic words. Bill was drawn out of his trance when Cain licked his fingertips. He caressed the mutt’s muzzle. 

“Could you please tell us where to find the horse?” He handed the woman another dollar.

“Sure, in Rhodes.”

“How do you know?” Bill’s eyebrows raised in awe.

“Oh, I saw her run out of the bayou towards the town.”

It was only when he was finally resting his head on his pillow later that night when Bill remembered the old woman was blind.


	14. Mais vous cachez, ô coeurs de fer, L'enfer!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s POV.
> 
> Choking, bondage, Dom!John? 
> 
> With special apologies to Mr Jeremy Gill…

“Dutch?”

“He was here a moment ago, you were sleeping…”

Arthur didn’t say anything, merely removed his hand from John’s and closed his eyes. John checked the bandage on his shoulder to make sure it didn’t need to be changed, then stood up and stared at the reposing figure. He couldn’t recall how many times he had lied to Arthur in the past twelve days. Dutch hadn’t been there, not that day, not that week, or the entire period of time since Morgan’s return. Dutch had picked Arthur up that first night and took him to John’s tent, where they were alone for about an hour or so, and from that moment onwards he was either away from the camp - once John even saw him leaving with Micah - or cooped up alone in his tent, flaps closed, uncommunicative. Having come to the conclusion that he couldn’t burden the seemingly unending weight of guilt and confusion anymore, John left his tent and headed for Dutch’s, only to come to a halt when he heard Hosea’s voice coming from within. He couldn’t resist peeking through the gap between the flaps.

They were both seated on Dutch’s bed. He couldn’t see the latter’s expression since his face was covered by his hands, elbows resting on his knees, bent forward, Hosea’s hand placed on his shoulder as the old man observed him with a morose look in his eyes. Fearing they might catch sight of him, John moved a little away from the opening, pretending to bide his time smoking a casual cigarette, while he kept his sharp ears affixed to the half-whispered conversation. 

“I can’t, Hosea… What if she-”

“I know, old friend, but you _must_...”

“What if she...” The rest of the utterance was unintelligible. John repositioned himself closer to the voices. 

“Nonsense, Dutch, he’s been asking for you…”

“You weren’t there, Hosea… The look in her eyes… As if-”

“No one blames you, Dutch… Well, I do, for not listening to my advice and letting those two fools rile you up… But Arthur doesn’t, you know that well enough, he never does…”

There was a pause. John almost wanted to take another peek but stayed put.

“Have you asked if they’ve…”

“No, Dutch, I haven’t!” Hosea’s profound distress was reflected in his deep sigh. “This is why I keep saying we need to do something to turn him back… If he’d been-”

“I’ll strangle Colm myself…”

There was the sound of bodies shifting which nevertheless subsided in a few seconds.

“No, you won’t. Remember what happened with Annabelle? The men we lost for the sake of an unsuccessful attempt at revenge? Remember what we agreed on? Look at me, Dutch. Say it.”

“Revenge is a fool’s game…”

“Good.” Hosea spoke firmly, his voice growing softer as he continued. “We’ll make Colm pay but not when he’s expecting it and not while we’re being hunted down ourselves… He could have made a deal with Pinkertons for all we know. In fact, that was exactly what I was expecting when you went to meet him in the first place...”

There was a moment of silence. 

“In the meantime, please go and see Arthur. Talk to him, Dutch… I’m not asking this for your sake...”

“I’ll think about it.” 

There was a familiar level of assertiveness in Dutch’s voice when he last spoke. John could hear Hosea sighing again, but didn’t detect his approach towards the front of the tent which meant he was caught eavesdropping.

“Well, this saves me the trouble of coming to get you…” Hosea eyed John sternly. “Come, we need to talk.”

“Okay…”

“I imagine you heard more or less everything?” Hosea enquired, leading them both towards the trees enclosing the camp. When John nodded, he resumed: “I’m not sure how long things can go on like this… I can’t handle them both all by myself…”

Just then John noticed how old and haggard Hosea looked. Before he could ask if he could be of any help, Hosea continued.

“We need Dutch back on his feet again. This isn’t the time to have people doubting him, not while we’re so far away from where we want to be…”

John could very well understand Hosea’s concern. He had long ago come to realise that although the best plans were usually devised by the old man, it was Dutch who set the gang into motion, who found the right words to inspire and energise every single member. 

“You want me to talk to him maybe?” John suggested.

“Maybe, yes…” Hosea reflected for a moment. “Why don’t you take him out, to Saint Denis or somewhere? Just don’t let him drink too much, I can tell he’s been doing a bit of that on his own and it never serves him or others well…”

“Sure…”

John watched the old man walk away before moving to his own tent first to get his things. Arthur was sleeping. He stroked his brow lightly, then grabbed his satchel and hat and headed to Dutch’s tent, pausing outside to inhale a deep breath before entering. The man was still sitting in the same position as before.

“Dutch…”

He lifted his face from his palms and looked at him with mild bewilderment, as if he’d seen a ghost. 

“I’d like to speak with you about something,” John stood before him. “Uh, a possible job… Have a drink with me?”

To his surprise, Dutch didn’t argue and instantly got up, looking at John quizzically when he didn’t move. It was late afternoon when they arrived at a fishing cabin some good distance to the north of the camp. John tested the door and when he found it locked, he used a couple of pins to unlock it and stepped inside, waiting for a skeptic Dutch to follow him in before closing the door.

“We’re drinking in someone’s house?” Dutch raised an eyebrow.

“Well, let’s say this is not the first time I’ve been here,” John grinned, bringing out a few bottles from a cabinet with the confidence and knowledge of a host. He poured two glasses of whiskey and gave one to Dutch, sitting himself down on the couch next to the man who was already downing the liquid. 

“You’ve been eating properly, old man?” John eyed Dutch’s sunken countenance, illuminated by the slanting afternoon rays coming from tears in the curtains. “Your face looks thinner…”

Dutch tilted his head in his direction, already looking a bit nettled, which pleased John, considering what his mission was. 

“What’s the job you want to talk about?”

“Hmmm, nothing…” John shrugged and sipped his drink, relaxing his back against the seat. “Maybe I just wanted to have you to myself for a while…”

The empty glass fell on the wooden floor with a thud as Dutch stood up and paced the distance to the door in long strides. John watched with some interest as he stopped at the threshold. 

“I don’t have time for this, boy,” Dutch spoke after a pause, his tone forbidding, his rigid back still facing him, his hand gripping the doorknob of the half-opened door. “Never lie to me again, understood?”

“I’ve been fucking Arthur every night for a week now, sometimes even during the day...” John looked away from Dutch and finished his whiskey, pouring himself another. “She loves it… Don’t know what those O’Driscolls did to her, but she’s been so tame, so clingy… Like she’s scared and I’m the only person on earth she trusts to prote-”

He had expected some sort of violent reaction, but not with the present level of force or speed. For a moment John figured he must have met his end, that the powerful fingers seizing his throat willed to finish him for good. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes as the pain escalated, air escaping his lungs and not returning as he gasped and clawed at Dutch’s hands and arms. All the while the man wouldn’t relent, dragging him off the couch until he was sprawled on the floor, the carpet twisting around his thrashing legs. His vision went dark after what felt like a decade of struggling and the last thing John noticed before blacking out was how hard his damned cock was…

And it was still half-hard when he finally came to, drinking in breath after breath like a man starving for water after being stranded in the desert for a week. John’s throat felt extremely sore and dry. He lifted his hands to his neck, touching the tender skin cautiously as he tried to recall where he was. On the floor, in the same cabin, considering the ridiculously large fish plaques hanging on the walls. Judging by the light, not much time must have passed, an hour or two at the most. He sat up, rubbing his neck, and to his surprise he found Dutch still present, sitting on the couch, legs spread out, one arm resting on the armrest, another dangling at his side, fingers loosely circled around an empty bottle of whiskey, head inclined backwards, eyes fixed on the ceiling, either closed or open.

John got up and approached Dutch, staring at him for a while as he coughed to clear his smarting throat. Funny he should feel more sorry for the man than he did for himself, seeing as he’d nearly died… 

“Dutch…”

No answer.

Twice more he called his name in an awfully hoarse voice. Again no answer.

“Almost killed me, you bastard!” He coughed again, frowning as he shifted to stand closer in front of the man. “You’ve got nothing to say? Ain’t you even sorry?”

“I didn’t though, did I?” Dutch sighed, his gaze leaving the ceiling to fix on him. There was a drunken haze settled in the brown orbs that John hadn’t seen for a long time. “You seemed to enjoy it... ” Eyes travelled to his groin.

“Yeah? What if I did?” John straddled the man’s lap, folding his fingers around his throat, thumbs pressing lightly on the windpipe. “Still doesn’t give you the right to do it…” He leaned in and kissed him gently on the lips, pulling on his moustache with his teeth, ruining its careful composition. Gradually he increased the pressure of his thumbs, simultaneously sensing hands moving to his rear, clasping, in response to which he bucked against the outline of the hardening length. In a second John had let go of Dutch’s throat to grasp at his hair with one hand, using the other to hurriedly open the buttons of the red waistcoat. 

“Son of a whore...” Dutch cursed when John suddenly broke the kiss to bite him fiercely on the side of his neck.

“Learned from the best…” He ran his tongue over the tip of the man’s nose like he had done to him that first night, unleashing hitherto unknown yearnings.

John was quick enough to slip away before Dutch could pay him in kind, and stood grinning, looking at the panting man, still seated, though the fire in his eyes and the taut stance betrayed a predatory promise waiting for the right moment to be unshackled. 

“Getting slow, Dutch…” John chuckled, licking his lips as he slowly discarded his own vest, undid his suspenders, and unbuttoned his shirt. Eventually he reached out and offered a hand to Dutch, who took it, letting John haul him up to his feet. He then lead him to the bedroom, holding his hand with almost parental carefulness. Once inside, he pushed Dutch onto the bed, where he landed on his back, looking with the same surprised amusement at John as an impresario would when watching a circus animal perform a trick he hadn’t taught him. 

As if wishing to astonish the man even further, John rummaged in a wardrobe nearby, returning with a couple of clean handkerchiefs which he hid in a ball in one hand held behind his back, smirking mysteriously as he observed Dutch’s curiosity peaking. He straddled him again, pushing him back until his back was flush against the mattress. Distracting the man with one of his best kisses, shy tongue and all, he made quick work of tying his wrists to the railing headboard. Dutch’s laden chuckles doubled the tingling arousal already tormenting his prick. 

“You really think a few flimsy pieces of fabric can hold me back, boy?” He growled, though still smiling.

“Can’t risk getting choked to death twice, Dutch,” John snickered, ripping the man’s shirt open. “Who knows how angry you’ll get when you find out I’m gonna fuck you…” The brief flash of ire in Dutch’s eyes gave him all the satisfaction he needed, though he sought to double it by grinding himself against the man, tipping his head forward to whisper-kiss: “Not gonna stay in power forever, old man, better start getting used to it…” John’s impatient fingers slipped under Dutch’s union suit, teasing and tweaking his nipples. “Sooner or later Morgan or I will start running the show and you’ll be nothing but… say, an Uncle or a Swanson…” He retreated again when Dutch tried to bite him, canines clamping half a second away from his already tortured throat. “Maybe Morgan and I will run it together…” He proceeded to unfastened the man’s belt and trousers. “Perhaps I’ll even marry her… Our children will be very pretty, won’t they, Grandpa Dutch?”

Dutch’s growl, as he ripped one of the handkerchiefs, rattled John’s frame, mirroring the vibrations that shook the bed, but he was waiting for it and caught the freed hand with both hands and pinned it down to the bed, laughing gleefully. 

“You’re having quite a bit of fun, aren’t you, boy?” The man beneath him hissed, pushing his hardened cock up against his ass which was positioned perfectly as he struggled to keep him down.

“That’s sort of the point…” John suspected Dutch wasn’t giving it his all or would have been able to toss him off without much effort, which emboldened him to become even more daring. “So far it’s been all about your pleasure… High time I take mine…”

He bent and kissed Dutch messily, pressing his naked chest against his, moaning to feel the multiplying heat. Soon John forgot all about securing Dutch’s wrist and his hands were engaged in urgently taking out their throbbing pricks, meanwhile rubbing his face against the other man’s with the authoritative affection of cat claiming an owner. As if in a show of accepting the bonding gesture, Dutch’s now released hand gripped the nape of John’s neck, fingers locked in his hair, holding him close and fast as he nipped and licked him back.

“Seeing as you seem to know your way around this place,” Dutch breathed in his ear. “I trust you know where you can find some oil, hmm, John?” 

“Yeah…”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

John yelped, his eyes watering as Dutch’s rings caught on black strands of hair when he was shoved back. In an instant, he went to fetch some oil, but not before making a devilishly delighted Dutch promise he wouldn’t untie his other hand. On his way back he shed his boots, jeans and union suit and was naked as a babe when he straddled Dutch for the third time, glad to see he had kept his promise. 

“Do you know what you’re doing, son? Have you ever done this with another man?”

John ignored Dutch’s question, though he couldn’t do the same with the lustful tone and its galvanising effect, and frowned in concentration as he dipped first one then almost immediately two fingers into his own ass, gasping when Dutch reached to slowly stroke his cock. John’s patience only lasted for a few moments and he quickly pulled his fingers out to position himself on top of Dutch’s well-oiled length, slowly lowering himself down.

“Easy, boy… Take it slow...”

They both winced as the head slid into the tight entrance, after missing the mark a few times. John squeezed his eyes shut, feeling Dutch’s grip on his girth tightening. He’d never had anything bigger than a finger in his hole and the unfamiliar intrusion was quite painful, though the measure of the hurt was nothing compared to what he was about to experience soon enough when he tried to ram in a few good inches of the thick shaft inside in one go.

“Fuck… You idiot, pig-headed little shit!” Dutch hissed, quickly untying his other hand to hold a crying John and roll him to the side as he pulled out.

John couldn’t tell which was worse, the shame of failure or the searing agony ripping through his insides. He settled in Dutch’s soothing embrace and let him murmur sweet consoling words in his ear for a bit and kiss and lick his tears away. His eyes still shut, he felt the warmth and weight of the man’s body withdraw and heard the clinking sound of Dutch’s rings dropping on a wooden surface. Through tear-stained eyes, he saw him return and lie down beside him, flinching when he felt slick fingers circling his opening. 

“Don’t be frightened, my boy,” Dutch kissed him softly on the lips, then on his left cheek, “Let’s open you up nice and slow.”

Soon he was moaning and quivering under Dutch’s caresses, rutting against the coarse hair covering the man’s lower abdomen which became increasingly damp with John’s fluids, freely leaking from his aching prick as his walls spasmed around the merciless fingers each time they hit the tender spot. When Dutch finally replaced his fingers with his cock, after many many pleadings from a mewling John, this time the entry was much easier, though still a bit painful. It took John a good few minutes to get used to the unaccustomed fullness, and his breath quickening, he clutched at Dutch’s biceps, thankful that the man was obviously holding back.

“You ready, boy?” Dutch murmured, hair disheveled, eyes laced with desire. 

John nodded and clung to Dutch even more tightly when the man started moving, slowly, jerking John off with an agile hand, while the other spread his thighs even further apart to allow himself better access. At some point any suffering John might have felt started to give in to pleasure, though the burning sensation never fully ebbed. Guided by instincts, he wrapped his legs around Dutch’s hips, pulling him back in each time he withdrew.

“How does it feel, boy? Your first time, isn’t it?” Dutch was panting heavily now. “I, for one, am having the time of my life… Should have done this sooner, I reckon... Teach you to shut that pert mouth of yours…”

‘Never!’ John was going to retort, but three fingers were thrust into his mouth, gagging him. He closed his eyes and focused on sucking and nibbling on them when Dutch increased his tempo, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room and mixing with both their grunts and whimpers. He gasped at the overwhelming sensation of the fingers’ and the cock’s sudden extraction from his body, but had little time to protest before he was flipped onto his belly, hips propped up and penetrated from behind. The searing pleasure-pain returned with the increased speed and vigour, uncontrollable sounds leaving his mouth as the angle placed his pleasure gland under constant onslaught. He was absently thinking of tending to his own cock when Dutch did just that, and a carefully timed brush of his thumb across his sensitive slit and round the head was enough to send John overboard. He came with a loud groan, harder than he ever had in his entire life, spilling his cum all over the bedding and Dutch’s hand. 

In the midst of his high he begged Dutch to stop but he seemed to be in another dimension entirely, some infernal plain, judging by the ferocity with which he sought his own pleasure at John’s expense, not minding if he’d die from overstimulation. Dutch’s roar of release, punctuated with deep powerful thrusts that forced him into a prone position, was music to John’s ears. His bones ached when Dutch finally collapsed on top of him, his seed seeping from his abused hole when he pulled out, giving John’s bum a hard spank before dropping next to him on the bed, forearm resting over his brow.

John rolled on his side and curled against Dutch, burying his face in his armpit, taking in the musky scent, licking the salty flesh and strands. Dutch grunted and pulled him up to kiss him, enclosing him in his heated embrace.

“Did you ever do this with Arthur, when he was younger?” He wasn’t sure why exactly he had asked that question, but he could sense Dutch tensing momentarily, then relaxing again. 

“No…”

“Ever wanted to?” He looked up at the man, finding his expression unreadable. 

Dutch didn’t respond at first and when he did at length it was with a question: “Do you think there are any cigars in this charming little house?”

“Why do you always have to be so secretive?” John snapped, casting Dutch an angry and somewhat hopeless glare.

“For the same reason you have to be so stupid...” Dutch sighed. “Do you always spout irrelevant nonsense after sex?”

“Are you afraid?”

Again no response, but John could feel the distance growing, like an invisible wall being built between them brick by brick, word by word.

“You coward!” John unwound the limp arm from his waist and got up, searching for his clothes and putting them on as he spoke. “Why don’t you go check on him, huh? I had to lie to him every goddamn time...”

“You know nothing, John Marston…”

“Oh, fuck you!” John spat, pulled on his remaining boot and picked up his vest. “Here is one thing I know: I’ve done enough of your share, about time you paid me back. He’s asked for a new sketch book and you better go and get him one, cause I ain’t riding for hours to Saint Denis on this battered ass!” 

Once in the parlour, John grabbed a cigar box from the cupboard, went back to the bedroom and tossed it at Dutch, who caught it mid-air, a self-satisfied smile spreading across his lips.

“Thank you, son. For the fuck too, I needed it,” He sat up and lit the cigar, taking a drag. “You can tell Hosea his plan worked, as always...”

Just as John was leading Old Boy away from the cabin, he saw a boat land next to the pier and a man get out with his fishing gear, heading for the cabin. He thought of warning Dutch, but then decided against it and went on his way, whistling a favourite tune...


	15. Far unfit to bear the bitter cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur’s POV.
> 
> Another grim chapter, please mind the warnings!
> 
> Warning: Gore, trauma, rape flashbacks, knifeplay, hate sex.

It was the same plain, sweltering sun burning directly above. Again he was crouched, or was that his usual height? Crawling carefully, trailing a specific scent… Closer now… Farther now… Closer again... A swift movement detected, his whiskers twitched, ears tingling… He could see it now, was chasing after it at top speed, the soft patter of his paws almost inaudible… He pounced… Too late… The prairie dog had reached its burrow, ran inside… He wasn’t worried though, this time the badger was there... He nodded at the badger who started digging with all his might… He crouched and waited, waited, waited… There it is! And here it is now, neck broken in his jaws, clamped tight… The badger wanted some, danced around him on short paws, and he teased him before sharing… They grunted and growled as they ate, but were soon distracted by a snake, hissing and spitting... The badger was running after it and he wanted to say ‘wait!’ but all that came out was a yip and he didn’t want to leave the food alone so he couldn’t run after him… Not with the vultures gathering around… He yapped and barked at them, backing away when their numbers increased… They weren’t going for the carcass anymore… He was surrounded now… The first claw landed on his rump, ripping through his fine black pelt, he spun around to bite the assailant, but was caught from behind again… For some reason they wouldn’t go for his eyes so he got to watch as they devoured him… As flesh and ligaments were torn apart, blood seeping into the soil… Strangely enough he felt no pain, until a claw pierced his left forepaw, his entire frame spasming in agony, which was extremely odd given the affected limb was lying somewhere farther away, unattached…

Arthur woke up drenched in his own sweat, throat hoarse and dry, head searing hot. He noticed a shadowy bulk to his left only when a warm weight shifted from the cot, just as he had fluttered his eyes open, and when the grip on his left hand loosened, letting go. It must be John, he wondered listlessly, or maybe Hosea, though the old man was seldom touchy. He had been sleeping on his belly so he had to lift himself on his elbows to change his position into a more comfortable one, shaking off the stiffness. 

The fragrant scent of cigar smoke filled his nostrils. 

_Dutch_ … He had meant to cry the name out loud, but his vocal cords failed him, and the name came out in a whisper, prompting the shadow to quicken its steps, so that Arthur had to scramble over the cot, freeing himself from the suffocating blanket as he slid onto the ground, leaping to grab the man’s left leg just as he had opened the tent flap. He bit his lower lip not to wail when the healing bullet wound in his shoulder twinged painfully at the sudden movement. 

There was a moment of stillness, lasting for all eternity, until the canvas dropped, the tent submerging in shapeless shades with the same oppressive urgency as he himself was to be engulfed when his hands were pried open and he was sucked into Dutch’s dark embrace as he knelt down beside him. Sheltered in the dear arms, he inhaled sharply, lapping up the scent, missed, missed, missed…

Arthur hid his face in the crook of Dutch’s neck, hoping the fabric of his shirt was sturdy enough to not let moisture pass through and reach the skin, but the slight tremor in his shoulders must have given him away, since the embrace tightened instantly. 

It was when he began kissing him when the shaking started, every tender kinship between lips and skin as tortuous as the sting of a viper, the venom bringing forth paralysing memories of keen touches despised, fought off with tooth and nail or withstood with unending terror, mere preliminaries to further invasions, pains, shrieks of despair… 

“Arthur! Arthur! It’s me...” 

The voice was unfamiliar in that it constantly morphed in timber and emotional quality into another, not worried, but amused… _Morgan, Morgan, it’s me, stop struggling_ … 

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” He screamed, finally, it felt oh so very good to have his voice back, thrashing and trembling as he pushed the terrifying arms and the nauseating scent away, pressing his hands to his ears to dull the lacerating effect of the deafening voice.

When finally he was freed, he crept under the cot, into safety, even if the pain shooting through his arm and shoulder worsened. He retched as the stranger called his name again, though his stomach was empty and nothing but watery bile came out. He only allowed himself to breathe when he heard footsteps leaving. Curling on his side in a fetal position, Arthur wished he would fall asleep and dream again, not of the episode he had just woken up from, but of the ones where a wolf came to his rescue, dispersing or killing the vultures. Sometimes it was a grey wolf, sometimes a timber wolf… 

Arthur couldn’t tell quite how long he had lain there until eventually he felt too rigid and cold and dragged himself out. The sun was nearly setting when he stepped outside the tent, having tucked under his arm one of the ten sketch books that had mysteriously materialised on his bed about five or six days ago. They were of various sizes and had been accompanied by pencils and rubbers, etc. He had assumed they must have been presents from either John, Abigail, Hosea, Sadie or Charles, or maybe all of them together, these being the people who had passed the most time with him recently and in whose company he felt the most comfortable. The rest of the camp seemed to be avoiding him whenever he came across them. Not that he spent lots of time in the camp itself, instead preferring to go for long solitary walks and sketch. He had drawn so many things in the past couple of weeks that a bump was visible on the upper left side of his right hand’s middle finger. On the other hand, he didn’t feel much like writing.

“You’re drawing from memory now, impressive!”

He turned to smile at Sadie who sat down next to him on the ground, some distance away from the camp. 

“Wanna smoke?”

“Sure…” He accepted the cigarette and let her light it for him with her own. 

“Coyotes again?” Sadie looked at the paper quizzically. “Are you a coyote enthusiast now, Morgan? Don’t tell me you’re gonna wear one of those ridiculous hats too...”

He grinned. “Nah, just been dreaming about them a lot lately.”

“Having nightmares?”

He shook his head, first in the negative, then in the positive, tentatively, letting out a sigh.

“I had them too…” The corner of Sadie’s mouth curved thoughtfully. She tilted her head in his direction. “They’ll go away eventually.”

Arthur nodded and exhaled, shifting to lean his shoulder against Sadie. He could almost feel her smile through the touch of her warm arm. They hadn’t exactly talked about their mutual experiences with the O’Driscolls, but it didn’t feel as if they needed to. Instead there was a growing emotional bond between them that felt all the more precious for its non-verbal quality. He reached and took Sadie’s hand in his, squeezing gently when he felt her place her head on his shoulder. He let his head rest against hers and put the sketch book and pencil to the side as they watched the sun sinking beyond the tranquil blue waves.

“Sadie…” He called her after finding her too quiet for a while, noticing the sound of her breathing had deepened. 

“Sadie…” He shook her shoulder gently, waking her up. 

“Huh?”

“You should go to bed, bet it was a tiring day.”

“Yeah…” She rubbed her eyes. “You’re not coming?”

“I slept all day...” He chuckled. “Could you take these back though, not much use for them in the dark.” He handed her the drawing material. “Thank you,” he added quickly just as she was leaving, wincing when she pinched his cheek in response. 

“Don’t be a moron, Arthur…” Her smile faded when she continued in a more serious tone: “You did the same for me.”

Arthur felt burdened by guilt as he watched Mrs Adler leave. He really didn’t think he had given her much support after the rescue, at least not as much as she had provided him with recently. He didn’t have much time to wallow in regret, however, as someone came and squatted next to him. 

“Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

“No, Morgan, been dying to catch you alone for a loooong time now…”

Hearing Micah’s voice, Arthur immediately stood up. Before he could draw his pistol, however, a hunting knife was pressed below his chin and he was cornered against a tree by Bell. 

“Where do you think you’re going, princess?” Micah hissed, leaning his obtrusive frame on a hand propped against the tree trunk next to Arthur’s head. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Arthur asked, trying to regain some composure, not wishing to give Micah the impression that he was in any way afraid of him or his knife. He had only been caught off guard.

“So, I’ve been wondering…” The man began, looking dead serious, before leering vilely. “Did they gang-rape you?” 

Once the initial shock was over and was about to be replaced with rage, Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but Micah beat him to it.

“Cause I would, you know, if I were them…” Micah drew closer, causing Arthur to tense and press his back further into the jagged bark. “I’ve been wanting to, you know, from the very beginning…” He could feel Bell’s breath against his neck, which made the downy hair stand on end. “To have a taste of that oh so special pussy Dutch has been raving about every time we go drinking…”

The lie was so obvious it almost made him laugh. Suddenly he didn’t feel so threatened, not even when Micah dropped his hand to position his beloved knife against Arthur’s belly.

“I’d just looove to ram my big fat cock in that juicy cunt and hear you squeal like the pretty whore you are…” His sigh was hot and heavy as he circled the tip of the knife around Arthur’s navel. It tickled. “Then turn you over and fuck you in the ass till you forget all about Dutch… Bet he hasn’t fucked you in the ass, huh?” He could feel the blade pressing closer and had to pull his belly in, holding his breath, until the knife moved downward to slip through the triangular gap between his thighs. “Bet they did though, eh? Fuck you in that tight ass of yours?” 

“They didn’t actually…” Arthur spoke calmly. Even smiling a little as he shrugged. “Too busy with the other hole.” Funny that the first person to actually ask him what had happened should be no other than Micah Bell. “Mostly Colm though, first couple of days at least, seemed to just looooove fucking Morgan’s sister… For some reason they thought I was my own sister, heh!” Arthur gasped when Micah pressed the flat side of the blade upwards against his sex, he could feel himself getting wet. “Till he got bored and thought of sharing…” He reached and stroked the blade, tentatively running his fingertips along the razor-sharp edge, drawing them back quickly at the hint of a bite. “Which was a bad idea, as you may have guessed… One of the others turned out not to be as careful as the rest, or perhaps he’d thought I had no fight left in me by that time…” He looked up at Bell and was puzzled to see the strange the look in the icy-blue eyes. “He wasn’t pretty to begin with, but was sure as hell ugly by the time I was finished with him…” An absent smile sat on his lips at the memory of the picture he’d painted of the man and his comrades, and their innards. “Sadly Colm had left already, so I didn’t get to pay him my respects, but made sure to leave a few of them alive to tell the tale… If they made it till they were discovered, that is...” He let one hand wander and rest on Micah’s shirt, fingers curling around the collar, as the other cupped the man’s angular cheek. “Anyway, I’d like to try it, in the ass… Was fucked once by some creep in the bayou who became alligator meal, about two months ago, but was unconscious so don’t remember much…”

He flinched as Micah suddenly stabbed the knife into the trunk, an inch or less away from Arthur’s ribs. The same hand clasped his waist, pulling him close.

“Do you ever shut up, Morgan?” 

He leant forward but Arthur withdrew, initially at least, licking his lips as he eyed Bell, heart racing in his chest for devil knew what reason, before crushing his mouth against Micah’s, his tongue darting in to grapple with the man’s, biting, grinding, pulling, pushing... feeling the edge of the knife lightly graze his flank. The savage collision of bodies that followed was more of a wrestling match than an embrace, and soon they were both brought to the ground, rolling in mud and fallen leaves like a pair of starving dogs fighting for a scrap of meat. Arthur couldn’t even tell anymore if the clothes being ripped were his or Bell’s. He only he came to when Micah pinned him to the ground against the gnarly roots surfacing here and there, at which point Arthur was panicking, shivering uncontrollably, and before he knew what he was doing he was shouting at the man to let him be on top.

“Damnit, okay! Stop yelling, woman!”

He took several deep breaths when Micah rolled onto his back, rubbing his ears and mumbling something. Arthur waited until the intense trepidation had subsided before moving to straddle Bell, taking an account of what had been removed and what needed to be removed. 

“You look like shit, Bell...” Arthur snickered, slapping Micah hard before running the palms of his hands on the man’s naked chest, beer belly, and further down to draw out his stiff penis.

“You ain’t a terrible catch yourself, Morgan…” Micah panted, sniggering in return as he quickly unbuttoned Arthur’s jeans and slipped a hand inside to cup his wet pussy, inserting a finger abruptly, eliciting a loud moan. “You gonna take these off or should I bring Sharkie back?” He tugged at the jeans. 

“Shark?” Arthur rolled onto his back momentarily to remove the jeans, though let the union suit stay and just pushed it back a bit when he positioned his slit above Micah’s erect member. 

“The knife…” Micah hissed as his cock slid in half-way. “Ain’t going for some fingering or something first?” 

Arthur shrugged and frowned as he lowered himself further, whining when the pain hit him, in the meanwhile speaking without looking at the man: “I want it to hurt.” What the hell was wrong with these fellows, he wondered, giving stupid names to their weapons and their dicks...

“Fine by me,” Micah’s hands came to rest on his buttocks, kneading urgently at first before giving each cheek a hard spank, bucking up simultaneously to sheath himself fully. “Just don’t go bitching to Dutch afterwards…”

Arthur only opened his eyes and allowed his teeth to let go of his lower lip when, having gotten used to the girth, he started moving, revelling in the wounding sensation of the shaft grating against his still moistening insides. He reached and grabbed one of Micah’s hands and brought it to his breast, gasping when the man pinched and twisted his nipple hard. The same hand went to rest flat on Micah’s chest as he pulled himself up, then lowering with force, making them both hiss in discomfort enriched by pleasure. Arthur’s other hand played with his clit leisurely as he set into a rapid pace, at some point blocking out Micah’s grunts and groans, solely awake to his own bliss, which was made possible by the fact that he didn’t care one jot if Bell got off or not. This was, after all, very much an exercise in getting back into the saddle after being thrown off, as it were. He knew very well he wouldn’t have been able to do this with someone he cared for or who cared for him… Even the thought of it made him queasy, which was why he eventually opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on Micah’s idiotically contorted face, riding him fast and hard, moaning and mewling at the top of his voice without a care or a smidgen of shame, enjoying the man’s urgent upward thrusts and the bruising grip of his calloused hands on his waist and hips as he pistoned his insides into a wet warm convulsing mess... 

Sensing the approach of his peak, Arthur slapped Bell on his other cheek, then bent forward and pressed his lips to the man’s grimacing mouth, kissing him fiercely. 

“I hate you so much, you son of a bitch…” Arthur howled, pulling back again, his nails digging into the man’s skin, leaving claw marks.

“Hate you back, cowpoke…” Micah grunted, delivering a particularly hard thrust that Arthur could feel at the opening of his womb, making him cry in shock and slap Micah even harder.

He could feel the man’s girth expanding inside him and as if in a competition for completion, Arthur sped up the movement of his slick fingers tending to his clit and climaxed merely seconds before he felt Bell’s cock pulsing, hot spend leaking from his cunt as he lost himself to the mercy of the static currents coursing through his entire body, eyes focused on the indigo skies, gaze idly tracing the milky way, heart pounding so hard it threatened to leap out of his chest. Finally he collapsed on top of Micah and stayed there, panting, wincing as he felt the cock slip out with a pop.

“You lying bastard, you said you wanted to fuck in the ass…”

Arthur lifted his head and eyed Bell with a measure of disbelief: “Some ungrateful cur, ain’t you?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Morgan, it was a pleasure following in the boss’s dicksteps...” He moved his apathetic gaze to him. “But I don’t fancy spilling in a woman’s cunt…”

Despite his sneer, there was a hint of solemn gravity in Micah’s bleary eyes that surprised Arthur greatly. He was well aware of the reason behind the preference, however, and didn’t need to hear the explanation that came afterwards.

“No point in overpopulating the world, eh?” Micah chuckled and moved to get up, rolling Arthur off himself. “Just so you know,” Bell began readjusting his clothes and picked up his hat, then turned to look at Arthur who was still sitting on the ground. “I ain’t the sort of fellow who’d do right by you, so if you got yourself a bastard don’t come whining at me… I ain’t gonna give you any money either…” He extracted his knife from the tree bark. “And if it’s a boy, don’t you never, ever call him Micah, you hear me? I’ll gut him myself if you do...” He pointed at Arthur with the tip of the knife as he spoke, before slipping it back into its sheath and turning to leave. “By the way,” He cast Arthur a final side glance. “Tomorrow a few of us are going to Rhodes to have a chat with them Greys. Feel free to join us… And next time you wanna fuck, it’s in the ass or it won’t happen…”

Arthur watched the man leave in silence. Not because he was awed by the continuous drivel, half of which he hadn’t even heard, but by the fact that it had just then occurred to him, after six weeks of various manners of fuckery, that it was possible that he could actually get pregnant…

 _Fuck_...

His palm hit his brow hard as he fell back into the mud, eyes and mouth wide open in sheer horror.


	16. Le fronde mobili, l'aure incostanti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary-Beth’s POV.
> 
> An entry in the _private_ diary of Miss Gaskill.

Dear ~~diary,~~ ~~future Mary-Beth,~~ reader,

It has been two days since we have settled in the new camp. This time it’s an old abandoned plantation house surrounded by swamps and not too far from Saint Denis. 

So much has happened in the past few days, and it is with a heavy heart that I hold this pen today to write of incidents that are best left forgotten. Still, I feel I must do this, if only so that I can go through these pages in brighter days and be thankful for having survived such ~~tragedies~~ hardships. I likewise do not wish to forget the sufferings of my friends, hoping that it will give me the ability to admire them even more for their strength of character and remember them with the same fondness I feel towards them today.

Sean MacGuire ~~has passed away~~ is dead. He was shot by the Greys four days ago in Rhodes. Mr Williamson and Mr Bell buried him to the north of Clements Point. I knew immediately that something was wrong when they came back without him, but Bill only told us girls the morning after, I imagine since he didn’t want to upset Karen ~~with whom he seems to have grown a bond of friendship~~. We managed to sober up the Reverend by noon the same day and all of us, except for ~~Mr Bell, Miss Roberts, Mr Duffy~~ a handful of people, went to visit Sean’s burial place to hold a small funeral for him. We each took a couple of stones and placed them on his grave. It’s a beautiful spot, as sunny and ~~happy~~ jolly as he always was himself. I think he would have liked it. 

We were all in a more or less tranquil mood by the time we were walking back to the camp, only to discover on our arrival than another calamity had befallen us: Jack has been kidnapped. When it transpired that the Braithwaites were behind it, Dutch, Mr Matthews, Mr Morgan, Mr Marston, Mr Williamson, Mr Escualla, Mr Smith and Lenny went to rescue him, while the rest of us remained behind to comfort a distraught Abigail. ~~It~~ The hours that passed between their departure and their return were some of the longest I have ever endured in my life. I can’t even imagine what the boy’s mother must have gone through... ~~Our~~ My heart was beating fast when I heard the returning hoofsteps later that night, but any hopes that we may have had were shattered when we saw no sign of little Jack. Apparently the boy is somewhere in Saint Denis. Dutch promises he is alright ~~but how would he know, I cannot help but wonder~~ … Poor Abigail hasn’t been quite herself ever since. John is no better. He doesn’t show it, but you can see his heart ~~cracking~~ breaking beneath the stoic surface. ~~Times like these make me want to never have a child, in such a wicked world as this, that is…~~

I wish I could say our troubles ended there, but as if some merciless ~~god~~ entity is taking revenge on us for the few ~~peaceful~~ relatively peaceful weeks we’ve had, we were subjected to yet another ~~calamity~~ misfortune. The morning after the raid on the Braithwaite manor, we had a visitor in the form of one Mr Milton from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. The man must have been out of his mind to just waltz into the camp and demand Dutch’s surrender. He had to leave empty handed, of course. It was a mistake ~~in my opinion~~ to let him go alive. Although on his own he may be of little danger, it is clear that he is a shrewd man, a proud man, who would not forget his defeat easily. We shouldn’t underestimate him… _Perhaps I can use him as a character in a future story?_

At any length, realising the Pinkertons know about our location, we had to pack and move camp again. Arthur and Lenny knew of Shady Belle and so we came here. I am not quite sure how I feel about this place. Although it is good to have a roof above our heads, there is something ominous about the house itself. As if it is being haunted by ~~bad~~ ~~evil~~ malignant memories… The alligators and the insects don’t make it a very pleasant residence either. ~~I much preferred Clements Point or even Horse Overlook.~~

Dutch, Mr Smith and the boy’s father have been searching in Saint Denis to gather information about Jack’s whereabouts. Charles volunteered to go when they couldn’t find Mr Morgan, who apparently hasn’t been seen since the evening of the day we arrived at Shady Belle. I would worry, but there are other friends who need my attention at the moment. 

As expected, Karen has been terribly depressed since Sean’s passing. She tries to keep a straight face, and even supports Abigail continually, but it’s obvious from the way she drinks how much she ~~loved~~ misses him. I wish I could do something to stop her drinking. Tilly and I spoke about this and decided we should ask Mr Matthews to talk with her, since she won’t listen to us. ~~We would have asked Grimshaw, but~~

Another person I feel I should help is poor Mr Duffy. He looks thinner and more anxious by the day and keeps blaming himself for Jack’s abduction. I tried to tell him he shouldn’t, but he seems to look even more miserable whenever I try to console him! Or maybe I’m just really bad at consoling people… I recall how, back when I talked to Arthur, I never managed to make him realise he isn’t a ~~bad~~ terrible man. ~~I don’t really know what to think of these men…~~ While Mr Morgan has done some ~~horrible~~ questionable things, I’m sure Kieran hasn’t done anyone any harm, at least not unless he was forced to by the O’Driscolls. The way he takes care of the horses, his gentleness, they all speak of a sweet soul… ~~Speaking of which, I think he may be sweet on me, which is rather precious, though unfortunately I don’t have any feelings for him other than that which is purely sisterly.~~ I hope he will find a measure of calm, but at the same time I cannot help but be concerned, considering what happened to Mr MacGuire after the news he received that night in the swamplands of his fate… I wonder what that means for Karen, and the thought makes me shudder…

On a brighter note, Mr Trelawny has stayed with us for a while now. He has been a most entertaining and ~~handsome~~ gracious gentleman, and I do quite ~~like~~ admire him. I suspect I would have ~~liked~~ admired him more had he been more serious and a bit more imposing, but it is fun spending time with him and I like how he tries to ~~impress~~ amuse me! Me, of all people! I reckon he is just being kind and as always I’m reading too much into it, silly girl that I am… 

Mr Escuella’s presence is also a ~~delight~~ comfort. I admire his ~~enchanting voice~~ musical talent greatly, and how he is always so well-dressed and ~~solicitous~~ gentle, but at the same time so ~~dangerous~~ daring and mysterious! If I had been a braver woman, perhaps I would have entertained the notion of escaping with him to a faraway land… Perhaps we could become ~~lovers~~ revolutionaries! Now that would be a life worth living, were you can do something that matters not only to you but to other people as well. How romantic that would have be-

The most ~~mind-boggling~~ extraordinary thing has happened! About half an hour ago, when I was writing the above lines, I was interrupted by Miss O’Shea who asked me to follow her to an empty room upstairs. I could have never for the life of me guessed what she told me next: she is eloping with ~~Miss~~ Grimshaw! She said, in that ~~catty~~ haughty tone of hers, that Grimshaw has proposed to her and they have decided to leave the gang without telling anyone, and right at that moment Grimshaw was waiting for her with their belongings at the train station in Saint Denis! And there is more... She told me she is pregnant with Dutch’s child, but that she hasn’t told him and isn’t going to. Grimshaw apparently knows and has offered to take care of them both… 

I have to confess I can’t imagine why of all people she chose to tell me. The only reason I can guess is that she probably still thinks I’m Dutch’s ~~inamorata~~ sweetheart and figures I might go and tell him. Perhaps she wants to hurt him this way? Or maybe she still hopes that Dutch might stop her from leaving if he knows she is expecting? Which explains why she gave me all the details about the time and place of her departure… At any rate, this is none of my business and so I am certainly not going to speak with Dutch about any of this… ~~Especially not after what happened last night, when he tried to kiss me suddenly as I was walking past him in the hallway.~~ I think I shall keep my distance from him for a while. ~~Not that I don’t find him charming, which I really do, but that is precisely why I should stay away or risk becoming another Molly O’Shea.~~

I never much liked Molly, but I hope for her sake that she will be happy with Grimshaw. I reckon most of her arrogance and aloofness came from how unhappy she was with her lot. It must have been very difficult losing a life of luxury for the sake of a man who didn’t care for her much, not anymore at least, from what I’ve heard and seen. As for Grimshaw… Well, I can’t say I’m surprised, judging by how well they seemed to get along in the past few weeks. But I wonder what will become of the camp and who will organise everything with Grimshaw gone! ~~I can’t imagine Mr Pearson being able to manage everything on his own.~~

Oh, I almost forgot, another interesting development is a budding friendship between myself and ~~Leopold~~ Mr Strauss! It happened rather unexpectedly, while the two of us were trying to comfort Miss Roberts one day. I always thought he was a ~~callous~~ ~~calculating~~ cold man with a heart of stone, and grey eyes to match, but turns out he can be actually pretty sweet when he wants to be! So one thing led to another and we got to spend some time talking, and I’ve found that I truly enjoy his conversation. He is very thoughtful and clearly very knowledgeable, ~~and in a way less intimidating than Mr Matthews,~~ so I think I shall continue our ~~liaison~~ association. Perhaps I can even persuade him to teach me German! I assume he knows a lot about various European countries, which might be of help with my ~~novels~~ stories. It helps that my feelings for him are _entirely platonic_ , which means I can be at ease and talk with him about almost anything without feeling embarrassed. I might even ask his opinion about my writings, though I can’t imagine someone as intellectual as him would be interested in romance...

Well, I think I’ve devoted enough time to these pages and figure now that I am in a writing mood I should be working on my ~~novel~~ stories. And so here ends the account of these eventful days.


	17. Mi guardi e taci?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dutch’s POV.
> 
> Time for a bath!

“All of it! They took all of it, Dutch!”

“Yes, I can see that…”

“Care to share what you find so funny!?”

Still chuckling, Dutch moved his amused gaze from Hosea to the money box, which was now empty of cash and coins and instead contained two red roses. He picked up the flowers and inhaled their sweet scent. 

“Parting gift from Miss O’Shea?” Hosea raised an irked eyebrow.

“No, Susan…” Dutch exhaled a sigh and turned to offer young Lenny who had joined them out of curiosity a clarification: “You see, Mr Summers, long ago when I was a strapping young lad about your age, I met this ravishing-”

“You were much older, Dutch,” Hosea rejoined, placing the empty box back on the table. “At least ten years older…”

“As I was saying,” Dutch mock-glowered at his friend as he lit a cigar. “I met a most charming woman at a brothel. Although still quite young, she’d been put in charge of the other girls, whose services she tried very hard to sell to myself and this old boy here.” He patted Hosea’s shoulder. “Of course, Mr Matthews was very much in love back then, and I only had eyes for the madam herself. Not to mention neither of us had any money…”

“Why did you go to a brothel if you had no money?” 

“That’s a very good question!” Hosea addressed Lenny, before turning to face Dutch.

Dutch ignored their inquisitive glances and continued: “After a protracted process of haggling, I finally managed to convince Susan to let me spend the night with her for the price of two roses - which incidentally I had picked on the way from some garden or the other - on the condition that I give her a real good time…”

“Really? She agreed!?” Lenny’s eyes were round in astonishment and not a small amount of admiration.

“Or so he claims… I suspect she just felt sorry for him, or got tired of his persistence...” Hosea shook his head, waving off Dutch’s cigar smoke. “I’d advise you, dear boy, not to believe everything this man tells you.” He turned to Dutch who was putting out his cigar: “Let’s assume Susan remembers your oh so fabulous bedroom skills, that doesn’t solve the issue of us not having any money! This is your…” He turned to Lenny again. “Would you give us a moment, Mr Summers? Thank you.” 

“Sure!” Lenny hopped out and closed the door behind him carefully.

“This is your mess, Dutch! They both left on account of you treating them ill, so see that you find a solution to our problem.”

“I will. Don’t fret, old girl, it’s bad for your health.” He grinned and bowed dramatically, offering a rose to Hosea who dismissed the gesture with a flick of his wrist and left the room with a hopeless huff.

Dutch was angry of course, but he was also terribly excited. All these incidents in the past week had stirred him in the best of ways, got his blood pumping again, made him feel alive and in charge. Long ago he’d come to notice how he always thrived in challenging times, this being one of the reasons he felt rather reluctant to follow Hosea’s plan to eventually settle down somewhere. Compared to the prospect of milking cows day in day out, the raid on the Braithwaite manor was a veritable aphrodisiac, though sadly he had not yet found the time to provide himself with the sorely needed release… He had also come to quite like Saint Denis, rife as it was with opportunities. The new camp wasn’t so bad either, seeing as it was closer to a fortress than any other place they had stopped at in the past few months. Losing both Molly and Susan at the same stroke annoyed him, of course, but he was well aware that like their predecessors they were replaceable. Now if only they could find Jack before he was shipped off to Naples... 

On his way to the jetty situated near the house, he came across Williamson to whom he offered one of the roses, laughing heartily when he saw Bill blushing a deep shade of crimson as he took the flower and scurried off somewhere… _Strange fellow_ … The other rose he tucked in the pocket of his waistcoat. 

“Boss, you look chirpy today!” 

Dutch grinned at Micah. “Why shouldn’t I, Mr Bell?” He opened his arms, indicating the scenery surrounding them. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Each to his own taste, I guess…” Micah smirked, adding after a moment of silence: “You ain’t worried about Morgan? Hasn’t been around for what, three days now?”

Dutch inhaled deeply and propped his hands on his hips. “Arthur knows how to take care of herself…” When he spun to face Micah, the man looked a bit shocked. “What, you disagree?” 

“No, but…” Micah mumbled. “But after what happened to her…” His tone suddenly became conspiratorial, as if he had spied an opportunity. “You know what they did to her, right, boss? You sure you still want to keep her around? Don’t imagine you’d fancy raising Colm’s brat... In fact, now that those two bitches are gone, why don’t you just keep the useful ones around? Get rid of all them weaklings...”

Dutch’s gaze remained focused on the quiet murky water glistening beneath the late afternoon sunlight as he let Micah go on prating about his theories on gang management, until at some point he decided he had heard enough and turned to face the man who backed away a step instantly and fell silent, eyes wide in a failed imitation of puppy-dog innocence. 

“For all your complaining, Mr Bell,” He smiled wickedly. “You seemed to greatly enjoy Arthur’s company... some six or so nights ago?”

“What are you saying, Dutch?” Micah smiled sheepishly, retreating another step. 

“I’m saying that I saw you fucking her,” Dutch frowned, taking a step towards Micah as he placed a firm hand on his shoulder, preventing him from withdrawing. “And you looked pretty happy doing it.”

“I swear, boss, I didn’t…” Micah flinched when Dutch increased the pressure of his hand. “You’re mistaken! Must have been-”

“And now, Micah-”

“I’m real sorry, boss!” Bell was blabbering now, eyes shifting as he tried to find a way to escape. “I didn’t mean to… It was her idea! She asked me-”

“Micah, look at me, you don’t seem to understand… It doesn’t matter what she did or didn’t ask.” Dutch tilted his head to the right as he lifted the man’s chin with the other hand, fixing his gaze into the frightened orbs. “And here I thought, of all people, you understood the rules. It’s a shame, son, because I like you, really do... You’re the one rabid mongrel I need in my pack… And yet you go and disappoint me...”

“I’m sorry, Dutch, please... I was seduced! She is sooo pretty, I just-”

“You laid your filthy paws on _my_ woman...” Dutch growled menacingly into the man’s face. “ _My_ belonging... Do you understand what that means?”

An almost tearful Bell shook his head in the negative. Oh, this was fun... 

“It means, son, that you owe me.”

Micah looked at him with stupid eyes, blinking, then relaxed. “Sure, boss… Whatever I can do-” 

“Well, let me see…” Dutch pretended to be in deep contemplation for a moment or so. “We happen to be a bit short on money at the moment. So how about you go and get me, say, eight hundred to start with?” Before Micah could interject, he resumed: “And that is not all, Mr Bell. Once you’re back I will have another job for you.” He let go of the man and stood back, watching the pathetic mess that he was. “Questions?”

“Boss, you know I’d do anything for you, but... _eight hundred_? She really ain’t worth that much…”

“I’m afraid these things are pretty subjective, son,” Dutch smiled viciously, wiping his hands together. “If you’d asked me beforehand, I might have given you a discount since you’ve been somewhat useful so far, but it’s a different story now...” He picked the rose from his pocket and propped it behind Micah’s ear, brushing away limp strands of blonde hair. He then eyed him as if appraising a work of art and smiled satisfactorily. “Now get lost before I toss you to our new pets to play with.” 

Watching Bell rush away, a scowl contorted Dutch’s countenance. Last time he had seen Arthur she was stealing away in the middle of the night. He hadn’t stopped her. It had taken him a while to get over the gut-wrenching anguish he had been subjected to after their encounter in John’s tent. In the days that followed, during Sean’s funeral, the raid, the relocation, their eyes never met. Dutch wasn’t quite sure if it was fear of further rejection that guarded him against approaching her, or the fact that he himself needed a hiatus from this haunting attraction… What he needed now was to concentrate on retrieving Jack and acquiring more money, a sum large enough to get them out of there for good. It was mildly tempting to go with Bell’s suggestion and letting all the non-earners loose, but he felt responsible for them, they were his family, even if none of them believed it… 

Deciding he didn’t fancy another episode of depression, Dutch headed for his bedroom, took a Miller book he had recently purchased from Saint Denis and headed outside again to read in a secluded area. So absorbed was he in reading that he only noticed the passage of time when the light of the now setting sun became too dim to allow him to continue perusing the fascinating arguments. He went back to the camp, and by the time he had eaten something the night had fallen. Going for a walk, he noticed Hosea sitting alone by the water and joined him, sitting on a tree stump. 

“You probably regret joining me…”

“Don’t be an idiot, Dutch. I didn’t join you, you joined me.”

He turned to smile at the old man, who was smiling back at him, for a change. 

“Last time I heard this was called the Van der Linde gang.”

“Sure, I let you keep the name so you won’t feel bad for not knowing how to run it…”

“You’re a mean old bastard, you know…” He chuckled, his posture relaxing. 

“Exactly what you deserve, son.”

 _Son_... He hadn’t called him that for a long time now. There were several moments of comfortable silence between them, reminding Dutch of the days when it was just the two of them. How simple life had been back then… Then they had to go and pick up that fifteen-year-old brat… A smile sat on his lips at the memory of his first encounter with the brash and yet so vulnerable boy…

“What if she’s pregnant with Colm’s child?” 

“What... Arthur?” Hosea looked like he had just suffered a bout of apoplexy. “Do you think that’s the case?”

“Could be...” He sighed. “From what I hear… Micah said-”

“Micah is a damned liar and you know it! He’d say anything to provoke or influence you, Dutch. You should know that by now...”

Dutch remained quiet, eyes trailing a column of ants circling the tip of his boot. He nearly jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Hosea looking at him intensely.

“We’ll do whatever Arthur wants.”

Dutch nodded, absently chewing the corner of his bottom lip. “How are you experiments coming along?”

The old man sighed. “Haven’t had much time to work on them lately… And with Jack gone, now John needs our support as well...” He paused for a moment. “Can’t help but feel we haven’t been the best of parents...” He turned to smile at Dutch. “I should probably go and check how he is doing…”

“You look tired, old man, why don’t you go to bed?” Dutch took Hosea’s hand in his briefly and squeezed it. “I’ll see to John.”

Hosea nodded and was soon gone. Dutch sat there for a while longer, could have been a few minutes or maybe hours, until he reckoned he should go and find John. At the foot of the staircase he came face to face with a bewildered Miss Jackson. 

“Anything wrong, my dear?”

“Arthur is back, but… there was blood all over…”

Dutch frowned and followed Tilly’s gaze upstairs. A moment later he was in Arthur’s room and found her curled on the bed.

“Arthur, are you injured?”

A sleepy murmur was all the response he got.

“I asked if this is your blood?” He enquired firmly, fingertips hovering above her shoulder.

She shook her head in the negative.

Casting a pensive look at Arthur, Dutch left the room, careful not to step on the gun-belt lying on the floor, and travelled downstairs. He woke Pearson and had him heat up some water, then headed upstairs and went through Arthur’s wardrobe but most of the clothes were either torn or dirty. He went back to his own room and rummaged through the clothes Molly had left behind, drew out a clean nightgown and headed towards a shack to the east of the house that they used as a bathing room of sorts. He deposited the nightgown and some rags on the wooden floor, before proceeding to carry the water there with the help of a dopey Pearson whom he dismissed afterwards.

Arthur struggled initially when he tried to pick her up but eventually relented. Dutch carried her to the shack, and was careful she wouldn’t fall down when he propped her on her feet on the floor. Still, he had to steady her by a quick grip on the shoulder. She looked at him with tired confusion and a bit of defiant umbrage, but didn’t say anything when he rolled up his sleeves and began peeling off the soiled clothes layer by layer, until there was nothing left on. 

Arthur gasped when he poured a bucket of water on her head, the liquid flowing through her hair and naked body, giving her skin a faint shimmer under the light of the moon invading the room in silvery profusion. He ran his hands all over her frame, checking every inch of skin attentively to make sure she hadn’t lied, that there were no wounds. Satisfied, he took a rag and wiped the remnants of dried blood and mud off her body, not minding her winces and whimpering. He tried his best also to ignore how hard her nipples grew under his ministrations. Yet the most taxing effort, as far as his resolution was concerned, was to stay unmoved when, losing her balance, she placed her hand on his shoulder and it slipped to rest on the nape of his neck, the cool touch of her fingers sending a tortuous charge to his already hardening cock.

Noticing how she was slightly shivering, Dutch guided Arthur into the bathtub, watching as her body submerged in the lukewarm water.

“Grimshaw has left and taken Molly with him, so I couldn’t find any soap.”

Arthur’s eyes widened for a moment before she turned her gaze away again and relaxed in the tub. Dutch discarded the rag and began caressing her dripping hair, kind fingers brushing through unruly locks until they were smoothly untangled. He then took a sponge and knelt beside the tub. Unlike the vigorous exercise earlier, now he was gentle, starting with her hands, softly scrubbing her arms, sensitive armpits, pale neck, round shoulders, back… He took extra care cleaning her breasts and smiled secretly to hear her sigh when his hand glided to her soft belly, massaging in spirals before moving to her thighs, at which point he let go of the sponge and let his hands take over, continuing the exploration even as she gripped the edges of the tub, feeling the soft down on her shin before gently rubbing her left foot, then the right, shifting upwards again until his fingertips came to rest on her inner thigh... She quickly grasped his arm and closed her legs when his hand slipped between them, fingers running among her warm folds.

“Don’t…” Arthur whispered, sitting upright as she endeavoured to push him away, expression painted with alarm, breath quickening. 

He didn’t remove his hand but stilled his fingers. “Arthur, look me in the eyes and say my name.”

She looked away, closed her eyes. He began moving his fingers again. She gasped and looked at him, eyes moist.

“Say it, Arthur, my name.”

“Dutch…”

A low hum of pleasure rumbled in his chest. He pushed a finger inside and bit his lower lip to see and hear her moan and arch her back slightly.

“Again…” 

“Dutch…”

“Say it again...”

She remained silent. He could feel her soft heat constricting around his finger. He inserted a second digit.

“Dutch...”

They stared at each other for a while. Blue threatening to wreck Brown. Brown threatening to consume blue. Oh, but he had the upper hand… A light brush of his thumb on the little nub was enough to have her close her eyes and recline her head backwards, thighs opening tentatively, digits digging into his bicep.

“Say it…”

“Dutch…”

With each call he felt himself inching closer towards the gravity of her magnetic appeal, mentally and physically, until they were so close their noses nearly touched. 

“Again…”

“Dutch…”

He planted a peck on the tip of her nose.

“Arthur…”

“Dutch…”

“Arthur…”

“Dutch…”

Their lips collided, desire rivalling desire in ferocity. Her wet arms clung to his shoulders, merciless fingers pulling on his hair, nails burrowing into the back of his neck and shoulders. Her tongue twirled possessively around his, his tongue around hers, one arm twisted around her naked frame, drawing her further into the kiss while he thrust three fingers meticulously into her sopping cunt, thumb circling her clit, her mewls spilling into his hungry mouth, his cock aching painfully against its confines, he grunts, she gasps, bending, arching, she comes, he comes undone.

He gazed at her for hour-long seconds, eyes rapacious, devouring her languishing aspect, draped as she was over his arm, head thrown back, mouth half-open, chest heaving, thighs quivering, cunt still spasming violently around his trembling fingers. He thought to himself he must be one of those fellows who enjoyed tormenting themselves, to watch this and deny himself a taste…

Eventually Dutch lifted Arthur from the tub. She was even drowsier now and more pliant than before. It felt like he was dressing a doll as he wiped her dry and put her in the nightgown. 

“Do you trust me, Arthur?” He hummed in her ear as he carried her back into the house, not even sure if she was awake to hear him, but she was.

“No…” She said, after thinking a bit. 

“You don’t?” He raised an eyebrow.

“No… I don’t trust you, Dutch.” She was looking at him now, more or less alert but still a bit hazy. “Never did…”

“Never? Not even at the beginning? Before John?”

“No, trusted you even less then.” She frowned. He halted, just outside the side entrance, one foot placed on the veranda, listening as she continued: “I don’t trust you, Dutch. Don’t need you. Don’t like to fuck you. Don’t like to kiss you…” Languid arms wound tighter around his shoulders and he was pulled into a light kiss. Before he could react, however, she withdrew, smiling. 

“Is that so?” He smiled, resuming the journey. 

“Yeah, it is so…” Arthur said as they climbed the stairs, resting her head against his shoulder. 

“Well, then…” He laid her down on the double bed, tucking her under the blankets. “Sleep dreadfully, hated one.” 

He bent and kissed her gently on her brow. Put out the light, took off his waistcoat and gun-belt, and lay down on the other side of the bed, over the blankets, back turned towards her. The last thing Dutch felt before falling asleep was the faintest touch of something curling against his back.


	18. Es ist das höchste der Gefühle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s POV.
> 
> There be pronoun shifts! 
> 
> Cemetery frolics and Robston goodness.

“You sure it’s alright to leave Arthur alone with Bronte?”

“Of course.”

“He didn’t look too happy…”

“Haven’t you noticed,” Dutch turned to look at him briefly before digging his heels into Count’s flanks. “Arthur is happiest when she is unhappy.”

John wasn’t so sure he agreed with what seemed to him a very cruel remark, which also made him wonder what similar assumptions Dutch made about him... He didn’t like Dutch’s mysterious smile either, and had liked the gangster’s grin even less and hated the way he’d eyed Arthur. As for Arthur, _unhappy_ was an understatement when in came to describing his expression once Dutch acquiesced to Bronte’s request that they let Morgan stay as his guest while the two of them went to the cemetery to conduct a minor business on his behalf. 

It took them a while to locate the culprits and eradicate them, a process which ended up in a gunfight. No sooner had they got their hands on the stash that the sound of whistles blowing resounded among the stony structures and in a moment a horde of policemen swarmed the cemetery. Dutch whispered that they should try to get away without attracting any further attention. John nodded and followed him, crouching, as they headed for the same entrance they had used to get in. They found a number of guards posted there, however, and ended up retracing their steps, almost coming face to face with two other policemen whom they circumvented by hiding behind the large statue of a weeping angel. John was wondering if they should discard the stealthy escape plan when he was pulled backwards into an above-ground vault just in time to evade an approaching lantern light. They remained motionless in the dark, John positioned in front of Dutch, holding his breath, until he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. 

“What are you doing, Dutch?” John could hear the policemen’s footsteps on the other side of the iron grating even as he was pushed down onto his knees, fingers gripping his hair.

“Hush, boy… I need this. You will give it to me.”

“Now!?” 

“Yes, _now_ …” Dutch snarled, fingers rapidly fumbling with the opening of his trousers as he sought to pull out his cock.

They both went still when they heard two or three persons talking immediately outside the vault. Dutch drew out his Schofield, which he had holstered only a moment before, and John watched him with a degree of amazement, standing alert with a revolver in one hand, stiff member in the other… Sighing, John switched his attention to the policemen, ears sharp. The voices had not yet died down when his head was twisted to the side, Dutch’s solid length inching its way into his unsuspecting mouth. 

“Come, John, the sooner you do it, the sooner we can leave…” Dutch murmured softly, scratching the back of his ear with a rough finger or two. “Be good now…” 

“Mumghffmm…” John cursed, or tried to, pushing his hands against the man’s thighs, but he was insistent, seemed to enjoy it even when he struggled and bucked his hips in response, making him gag. He tried to breathe through his nose, relaxing his throat to accommodate the invader, meanwhile feeling a familiar twitch in his own prick. _Shit_... 

“That’s it, son…” 

From the corner of his tearful eyes, he saw Dutch almost keeling over in pleasure as pushed himself farther down his throat, and he probably would have, had he not placed both hands firmly on John’s shoulders as he slowly fucked his face. John gathered a bit of the saliva running from the right side of his painfully stretched lips and moved a hand to grip the base of the other man’s cock, squeezing tight as he pulled his mouth free to give his jaw a sorely needed break. 

“If they find us, we’re dead, you know…” He panted, rapidly stroking Dutch’s shaft.

“I know, John... That’s what makes it... so good…” 

Dutch closed his eyes and leant back against the cool stone wall, fingers running through John’s black locks again, tenderly this time, letting him go at his own pace, sucking on the head, experimenting with various levels of intensity, curious tongue traversing along, across, around and below different breadths of texture. John yelped when he felt the tip of Dutch’s boot pressing against his hard length, sliding up and down, nudging his balls. He moved his stance so he could now chew and suck on the silken-smooth skin, mouth pressed to the side of Dutch’s cock, licking the protruding veins, drawing urgent growls from the man, whose heavy balls he was now caressing, now fondling, now clutching tightly enough to earn himself a half-serious slap on the face, before he was pulled up and into a punishing kiss, then pushed down again and ordered to resume the service. 

It wasn’t long before Dutch was pulsing on his tongue, inundating his mouth with salty cum, as his low desperate grunts echoed in the vault. This time John was quick enough to spit out the bitter seed, looking up to flash the man a cheeky grin, earning himself another slap, followed by another kiss, now unhurried and hungry for something other than his body or the pleasure it could offer… John’s disappointed mewl was loud enough to even surprise himself when Dutch’s hand stopped kneading his aching prick as the man stood up, gaze still fixed on him.

“I’ve missed you, son...” Dutch drawled, licking his lips, expression briefly soft, if devilish, before turning severe again as he barked in a hushed tone: “Get up, we’re leaving.” He nudged him on the thigh with a commanding boot while fastening his own trousers, then slipping out of the vault without sparing John a second glance. 

They were able to successfully leave the cemetery without being seen. John remained petulantly silent on the way back, shifting on the saddle every second or so to readjust the position of his uncomfortable erection, to remedy which he tried to think of all manner of disgusting things, finally achieving the desired result when he recalled the image of Uncle’s naked bum wiggling through the open flap of his union suit. He should remember to thank Uncle when he got back...

Arthur was waiting for them outside the mansion, and John almost cried out in joy to see Jack holding his hand. The sight of the boy running towards him with open arms sufficed to redress any distress he had suffered since his kidnapping. It suddenly dawned on John how he had never felt so happy as when he heard the ring of his son’s laughter as he jumped into his arms, calling him ‘pa’... Absorbed in his own felicity, John barely noticed an irate Arthur marching by, slapping Dutch’s hand away as the latter tried to put it on his shoulder. Morgan didn’t even wait for them, was on his horse in a second and trotting away. 

The journey home was thankfully uneventful, though John would have preferred it if Jack didn’t sound like he’d enjoyed his stay at Bronte’s so much… It was awful as a father to think he would never be able to provide a likewise lavish lifestyle for Jack, even if Dutch and Hosea had drilled theory after theory on the evil of luxury into him since he was a young man. John wanted the best for Jack, whose absence, brief as it was, had reminded him just how much affection he nurtured for the boy.

The despondent feeling was not abated when, on arriving at the camp, Abigail thanked everyone except for him. No doubt he deserved the treatment, he figured, given the way he’d been treating them these past couple of years. Even so, John was grateful to Hosea when the old man pushed him to sit next to Abigail and Jack during the celebration, and he tried his best not to get too drunk that night. He didn’t feel quite brave enough to ask Abigail for a dance, so he requested one from Karen, who outright rejected him. Tilly was already dancing with Trelawny, and when he approached Mary-Beth, she excused herself by saying she had twisted an ankle and couldn’t dance, while casting nervous side-glances at Dutch who was loitering nearby. He was too frightened to ask Mrs Adler, and Bill... well, he didn’t really fancy dancing with Williamson and the sentiment seemed to be mutual… 

“Aww, poor Marston, I’ll dance with you…” A tipsy Arthur slurred, and before he could say anything he was holding her, flush against his chest, his ears and neck heating up as he tried not to look at Abigail. The dance didn’t end up being as enjoyable as he had imagined, nevertheless, when Morgan suddenly whispered into his ear that she’d skin him alive if she found out John had bred her...

And so, by the end of the evening, John was mighty glad when the party came to an abrupt halt thanks to a sudden torrent of rain. He picked up a drowsy Jack and went upstairs with Abigail. They both sat on the bed next to the reclining boy tucked securely under the blankets.

“Thank you, John…”

“Don’t need to thank me, he’s my son too…” He said and blushed a little anyway, blaming it on the whiskey.

They were silent for a while, eyeing Jack, who was sleeping peacefully, a smile adorning his sweet round face.

“Have you thought about what I said before?” Abigail asked quietly. “About us moving away, settling somewhere on our own…”

“Yeah…” John began, but then shook his head and smiled ruefully. “No, to be honest, I haven’t, but I’m starting to think maybe you’re right… With what happened to Jack, and to Arthur…” His smile morphed into a grimace. “Can’t help thinking what might have happened if they’d taken you too… Or if something had happened to Jack… If he was taken from us for good...” 

“I know…” Abigail nodded, placing her hand on his. “That’s why I think we should do this as soon as possible… Now that Molly and Susan are gone, maybe we can leave too? Dutch wasn’t too angry about them leaving…”

“Isn’t it worse if we leave now?” John sighed, observing her with a searching gaze. “It’d be like we are abandoning the gang just when they need us… Besides, I still feel like I owe him, and Hosea, and Arthur… I can’t just disappear, not again…”

“Do you want me to speak to them?”

“No!” The word left his mouth abruptly and Abigail had to shush him with a finger on his lips. “I don’t think that’d be a good idea…” John continued as they both relocated to the other end of the room, sitting side by side on the floor, leaning against the wall. “Maybe we can ask Hosea to talk to Dutch? Or even Arthur, but later, not now…”

“Don’t you think she looks a bit strange recently?”

“Who, Arthur?” John raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah…”

“Strange, like how?”

“I don’t know… Just reminds me of something, the way she looks, all dreamy like…”

“Bet it’s cause of what they’ve been up to, the big man and Arthur...” John’s flashed her a mischievous grin. 

“Really? Again?”

“Yeah… Pretty sure they were at it in the tub shack last night...” 

They giggled like a pair of gossiping school children.

“You know, John, I’m so glad for once you weren’t stupid enough to go and drink some strange brew…” Abigail frowned. “I’d have killed Dutch with my own hands if he laid his hands on you…” 

“Right…” John coughed and gulped, moving to brush a strand of hair away from Abigail’s face. “So… Now that we are okay again… Can we, you know, tonight…”

“For shame, John Marston!” Abigail grinned, huffing in mock-indignation. She held his chin in her hand and looked him in the eyes. “Why should I let you, eh? Reckon I’d wait till you’ve built me a nice house first…”

“Nooo…” His whine was exaggerated on purpose as he took hold of her hand and planted several kisses on the upturned palm. “I’d die till then…” Her other hand he placed on his crotch, pressing, and she laughed to feel him bursting already. “Your little boy misses his momma…” He leaned in and kissed the side of her neck, gently sucking on the same spot afterwards.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm…” John lifted his head to lock gaze with Abigail for a second and finding his answer in her darkening pupils, he bent lower to mouth her nipples, having first pushed the pesky textile restrictions out of the way. She smelled so good…

“Has he been a good boy, hmm?” 

He moaned to feel her tighten her grip on his still clothed cock. 

“Yeah… The best of boys...”

“Liar!”

She smacked him lightly on the back of his head, which only propelled John to suckle harder on the perky peak his attention was focused on at that moment, caressing her hips before moving to bunch up her skirts, almost dying of joy as he felt the soft surface of her thighs. 

“You want it, huh?” She pushed his hand away just as he was about it slip it between her legs. “You ain’t gonna get it, naughty boy that you are…”

He hissed when dainty fingers freed his cock from its confines. “Yeah, I’ve been a bad boy…” His breathing was now hoarse and erratic as he thrust and bucked into her grip, which was playfully inconstant in strength, driving him nigh mad. “But even bad boys love their ma…”

“Maybe I should punish you…”

All that he could muster under her expert ministrations were incohesive moans and gasps. His left hand clasped her buttocks while the other palmed and cupped the breast he wasn’t kissing and licking. 

“Wonder what I should do… How about I leave you, hmm...” She murmured. “For a year? Two? After I’ve put my baby in you...”

John couldn’t take it anymore. Heat exploded in his belly and he saw stars as he spewed his fluids all over Abigail’s hand and undergarments, meanwhile kissing her fervently on her obliging mouth, partly to enhance his pleasure, and partly to prevent himself from announcing his climax loud enough for everyone to hear… Spent and panting, he begged to pleasure Abigail but she wouldn’t have any of it. She shooed him away, washed her hand in a washbasin, dried it on her skirt and went to lie beside Jack on the bed, hugging the boy to herself as she pulled the blanket on top of them both.

John lay on the bedroll on the floor for a while, tossing to the left, tossing to the right, staring at almost invisible spider webs in the corners of the room, tracing shapeless patterns on the faded wallpaper, his mind divided between the prospect of a tranquil life with a wife and a son and a precarious outlaw existence with no precise expiry date and most likely ending in a gruesome death, shot full of holes by lawmen or such… Realising he couldn’t sleep, he got up to have a smoke when on exiting the room his eyes fell on the balcony and he spied first the flickering orange light of a cigarette and then Morgan, looking a bit less drunk. He stepped forward to approach him but stopped in his tracks when a cigar came into view, rings glittering under the moonlight, then Dutch’s frame.

“The mayor’s party...” Dutch mused, smiling calmly at Arthur. “Well done, son. Invitations for how many?”

“Four.”

“What did you have to do in exchange, hmm?” His tone waxed carnal, dark and low, just a tiny bit piqued. “Suck his cock?” Wolfish gaze focused on the other, who said nothing and whose expression John couldn’t quite make out anymore as it receded into the shadows. “So… I will go, you, Hosea…”

“Marston?” Arthur asked, exhaling a final puff as he flicked the cigarette butt onto the ground below.

“Marston?” Dutch echoed, brooding. “Maybe…”

“Doesn’t really matter, thought he might be useful…” Arthur shrugged, resting both elbows on the railing, looking away from Dutch.

“Why?”

“Hmm?”

“Why John?” Dutch persisted, leaning on the railing sideways, eyes trained on Arthur. “Do you feel safer if he comes?”

“Not particularly, no… Didn’t give it much thought, just a suggestion...”

“Don’t lie to me, Arthur…”

“Why would I lie to you, Dutch?” Arthur responded, tilting her head, countenance now lit by intermittent moonlight as she looked Dutch straight in the eyes. John noticed a hint of irritation in her voice.

“You don’t believe I will protect you?”

Arthur smirked before lowering her head, sighing: “Not when you enjoy playing the pimp so much…”

Dutch remained quiet, stare intense, expression stone-cold. 

“Let me guess, you want me to dress up as a _lady_ for this one too?” Arthur resumed after a moment or two, eyebrows raised.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Cinderella,” Dutch’s chuckle was low and wicked as his frame instantly relaxed. “And this time I’ll choose the gown myself…”

John couldn’t hear the rest of what Dutch whispered to a quiet Arthur, who seemed disinterested in equal measure to the other’s mounting amusement. Eventually, Dutch shifted his cigar to his right hand, the left now pressing on the small of Arthur’s back, drawing her into a loose embrace, bending to kiss her on the top of her head, then left cheek, trailing downwards until his mouth came to rest on the other’s parted lips. Witnessing the intimate scene, John’s heart ached with jealousy, the target of whose darts he couldn’t quite place, however... 

“Pa, I need to pee…” 

John almost wet himself when Jack called him and tugged on his belt. Swiftly he spun, picked up the sleepy little boy and ran downstairs. The last thing he heard - clearly and loudly, to his chagrin - was Dutch’s deep voice: “Well, the skulking step-sister is definitely _not_ going to the ball...”


	19. Sehr komisch dieser Irrtum war!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur’s POV.
> 
> Fun times at the mayor’s ball!
> 
> Arthur’s dress looks like [the blue one](https://i.pinimg.com/474x/ea/9d/3a/ea9d3ad1147f03d5190f553b891df55e--edwardian-fashion-edwardian-era.jpg) but without the frills and patterns, also different colour.

“Well, what do you think?”

“It looks… fine…”

And he meant it. It felt like he wasn’t looking at himself anymore, but at the reflection of a smartly dressed couple… He knew Dutch had a good taste in clothes, but had half expected him to choose a flamboyant gown, red in colour probably, loud enough to place him uncomfortably in the centre of attention. But this was actually pretty nice… His gaze perused the smooth contours of the dress, which was a very simple, yet elegant, cream-coloured affair, perhaps a bit revealing on the top, given there were no sleeves and only straps, though frankly he preferred this to being covered up, considering the sweltering nights of Saint Denis.

“You seem to like it. I’m glad.”

Arthur only noticed he had been twisting to left and right, checking himself in the looking glass from different angles, when the other man rested his hands gently on his bare shoulders and stilled him. Dutch picked up a long rope pearl necklace and wound it once around Arthur’s neck before letting the rest fall naturally on his chest, reaching all the way down to his belly. 

“Where did you get the money from?” Arthur frowned, eyes levelled on Dutch’s through the mirror. “The dress doesn’t look second hand…”

“It’s not, and these aren’t fake either,” Dutch leant and planted a kiss on the shoulder whereon his right hand had abided a moment before, fingers now sliding downwards to play with the pearls. “Let’s say a certain someone has been put to good use…”

Arthur tilted his head to ask which gang member but was hushed when his mouth was claimed in a soft, lingering kiss. Any hesitation he might have felt melted away when Dutch began stroking his belly in gentle circles, drawing him further into his embrace. And so he was almost annoyed when they were interrupted by a knock on the bedroom’s door in the rented apartment.

“The carriage is ready,” Hosea explained, closing the door behind him as he stepped in.

Arthur busied himself pulling on the long white gloves in an attempt to ignore the curious looks the old man was casting in Dutch’s and his directions alternately.

“Let’s get going,” Hosea urged, pushing Dutch away from the mirror. “Come on, your moustache looks fine! Arthur...”

“We’ll be down in a moment, Hosea.”

Both men turned to look at him with raised eyebrows but said nothing otherwise. Once Hosea had left, Arthur searched his satchel, which had been discarded on the floor at the foot of the bed, took out a photograph and handed it to Dutch. “Here, I got you that thing you wanted…”

“What is this?”

“The picture…” Arthur began to explain and almost immediately regretted the gesture. If Dutch didn’t remember asking for his portrait, then he’d just gone and made a fool of himself… The silence that followed while the other man inspected the photograph made him feel even more embarrassed, to remedy which he quickly added: “Met this fellow a few days ago, was taking pictures of coyotes and such, and he asked to take my photo… Anyway, give it back if you don’t want it…”

As soon as he made a move to retrieve the picture, Dutch snatched it back.

“What fellow?” He was looking at Arthur again, brow furrowed in reflection. “Why did he want your picture?”

“Some wildlife photographer…”

“And?” Dutch asked when Arthur didn’t provide any further information, pocketing the photo. “You aren’t exactly wildlife, though close enough...”

“Albert’s a bit funny like that,” Arthur smiled absently, recalling the clumsy idiot. “Sort of endearing, really… Reckon I’ll introduce you, have him take your picture too, big old Dutch van der Linde, last surviving representative of the extinct species known as the gentleman out-”

“What the hell is taking you so long!?” An irate Hosea burst into the room and this time they had to leave. 

Once they were all seated in the carriage, Arthur realised he didn’t recognise the old lady sitting opposite him, (over-)dressed in a deep burgundy gown, hat, gloves, bustle and lace and feathers and all, until the woman winked at him, waving a coquettish hand as she sent him an air-kiss... “Uncle!” He couldn’t believe his eyes… 

“Mrs Blythe to you, young lady!” Uncle tutted, moving to lift his hat, but stopping half-way as he apparently realised women didn’t do that sort of thing. “Socialite and adventuress extraordinaire! Been to half the globe and back, patroness of arts high and low, discoverer of Egyptian mum-”

“Don’t take the act too far or it won’t be believable,” Hosea warned Uncle.

“Why are we taking _him_?” Arthur asked, first looking at Dutch, then at Hosea.

“Ain’t supposed to be believable,” Uncle protested. “Tonight, I aim to entertain! Hardly anything entertaining about the truth…” 

“Why Uncle? Where’s Bill?” Arthur repeated his question, turning to Dutch again, but it was Hosea who responded.

“It was my idea. An intoxicated old lady should seem harmless enough for some folk to let their guard down,” The old man explained, smiling amusedly. “And Bill wouldn't wear a gown no matter what I said…”

Before Arthur could enquire as to why Bill was allowed to make a decision on the matter but he had been given no choice but to wear the damned dress, they arrived at the mayor’s mansion. They went straight to meet Bronte, who eyed Arthur in an unsavoury manner and said something in Italian to his men that Arthur was glad he couldn't understand. The conversation with Bronte was unpleasant, if informative, and much to his relief the gangster made no reference to the promise he had made Arthur make in exchange for the invitations... 

“Gentlemen, and ladies, you all know what to do.” Dutch addressed the three once they were alone. “Remember, business before pleasure!” 

Arthur wandered about a bit, sipping champagne, enjoying the music while pretending to eavesdrop on people, though he was supposed to do things the other way around. He noticed Hosea engaged in deep conversation with some banker, and smirked to hear Dutch expounding his theories to a prison warden and a confederate major of all people… At some point he noticed a fellow choking on an olive and managed to save him and was given his card. He turned out to be a milliner with a funny name… Some drunks tried to flirt with him and he made a remark or two about their tiny peckers which discouraged them immensely… All in all he was having quite a bit of fun until he had to apologise to a lady on whose fan he sprayed a good quantity of champagne on witnessing Uncle surrounded by half a dozen young men, listening to the tales of Mrs Blythe’s escapades as the most demanded prostitute in at least three continents…

“Oh, call me Amethyst, sweetie pie!” Uncle was giggling and batting his false eyelashes at an eager slender youngster when Arthur resolved to continue on his way.

Feeling somewhat famished, he approached one of the tables and was instantly overcome with a fierce hankering for not oysters or beef, nor shrimps, or any other delicacy, but damned gherkins! It felt like he had downed some poison and the only antidote was a vast quantity of gherkins… He took an empty plate and piled it up with as many gherkins as he could find lining the corners of various dishes and sat himself on an empty chair at a table with some fellows he didn’t know and didn’t care to know because they weren’t made of gherkins… Eventually, he got tired of using the dainty fork, pulled off his right glove and began digging into the pickled goodies with bare fingers.

“What are you doing, Arthur…”

He jumped to hear Dutch’s dark whisper in his ear, and looked to see the man casting apologetic glances at the guests around the table before dragging Arthur away and behind a tree. 

“Was just hungry…” He mumbled, still munching on at least two gherkins, as a frowning Dutch grabbed his purse, took out the rouge tin, removed his own glove and began applying the substance to Arthur’s lips with his pinkie. 

“You can have all the food you want once we’re done here,” Dutch chided, licking Arthur’s fingers clean before putting both their gloves on. “Remember, business before-”

At that moment they heard the voice of Hobart Crawley conversing animatedly with someone nearby. Dutch thought for a moment, then opened the purse again and took out some kohl which he used to paint a largish beauty mark on Arthur’s left cheek. 

“What’s this for?”

“The major mentioned something about a high stakes poker game,” He returned the purse to Arthur and offered him his arm. “I have a plan for getting more information out of him. Just play along…”

Despite having grave misgivings Arthur did as he was told. Dutch greeted the major in his own charming manner and introduced Arthur as Princess Isabeau Katharina Zinsmeister… _WHAT?_... Arthur had scarcely opened his mouth when Dutch continued by saying that due to having suffered from various tribulations the princess had sadly lost the ability to speak… _First Fenton and now_ … Arthur was livid, but managed to hide his anger beneath a tense smirk which threatened to bloom into a grin when Crawley asked Dutch why the princess looked about a decade older than her alleged age. Without losing any confidence, Dutch proceeded to explain how a difficult life of forced prostitution and depravity had had its effect on the poor princess, who had just recently been rescued by no other than himself, and who was now like a precious daughter to him. 

“I see…” The major spoke at length, his sleazy grin sending a shudder through Arthur’s spine.

“Why don’t you go for a walk with the good gentleman, dear Izzie?” Dutch addressed Arthur, patting him graciously on the hand, before turning to the other gentleman. “While I have a chat with...”

“Evelyn Miller.” The major introduced his companion. “The famous writer, though I have to say we don’t have much to agree on…”

Taking the major’s readily offered arm, Arthur noticed Dutch’s shiny eyes and big smile as he took out the photograph he had given him earlier and asked Miller to sign its back.

During the walk in the gardens to the side of the mansion, Arthur didn’t have much trouble rebuffing the major’s advances, and it soon became evident that the man hadn’t in fact bought Dutch’s ploy and probably assumed Arthur was some courtesan… Even so, it was interesting to realise just how many secrets a tipsy horny man was willing to divulge to a mute woman. By the time Crawley had got over boasting about his revenues and ventures and moved on to his personal feelings and amorous aspirations, dramatically enhanced by a backdrop of fireworks up in the sky, Arthur was nearly bored to death, when suddenly he spied Dutch following a footman into the house. What Dutch didn’t seem to be aware of, however, was another man in his pursuit. 

“Excuse me, sir… uh, I really need to take a piss…” 

Arthur swiftly freed his arm, and ignoring the major’s entreaty that he should urinate on him instead, he rushed for the side entrance in a stealthy chase after the footman who was following Dutch who was following the other footman. He arrived at the upstairs room just in time to see the second footman pounce on an unsuspecting Dutch from behind, setting to strangle him with a garrote. In a flash, Arthur grabbed a letter opener from the desk and stabbed the man in the neck, muffling his death cries with a firm hand. The now limp body turned out to be too heavy, however, and once he’d stopped struggling the man fell to the ground with a loud thud. Shortly after there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Arthur and Dutch looked at each other before quickly shoving the body under the desk. The maid who entered the room was obviously scandalised to find two of the guests _in flagrante delicto_ on top of the mayor’s desk... She begged them to use one of the bedrooms before leaving in a hurry.

“Are you okay?” Arthur gingerly ran his fingers along the wiremark on Dutch’s neck once they had slipped off the desk.

Dutch nodded. “Colm’s man…”

“What! Here?”

“Must have been a mole,” Dutch remained thoughtful for a moment, then motioned at the corpse. “Let’s get this out of here.” 

It took them a good half an hour to move the body out of the building and carry it to the rivershore, dropping it in the water before anyone could see them. 

“Guess we can’t go back to the party now…” Arthur almost sounded relieved, panting as he glanced at the blood and the mud on his and Dutch’s clothes. Not to mention he’d used the trail of the gown to wipe any excess of blood from the study’s floor. 

“Seems to be the case,” Dutch smiled, coughing as he rubbed his neck. “Let’s go back to the apartment.”

“And the others?”

“They’ll find their own way home, I’m sure…”

They managed to steal only one saddled horse, and so the good citizens of Saint Denis were presented that night with the ghastly sight of an intimidating looking man on a black horse with a woman sitting in front of him in a bloody dress.

“My darling wife has really bad monthlies...” Dutch explained to a gawking neighbour who did not look the least pacified by the clarification. 

They were taking off their clothes when Arthur noticed he was missing a shoe and shrugged it off by figuring it must have fallen from his foot during the ride. Fortunately, this time he had refused to wear all the usual undergarments and so was down to the final layers pretty soon, only to blush a deep shade of red when he noticed Dutch had stopped disrobing and was watching him instead. In the dim light of the room his gaze had a strange softness to it.

“Let me help you with that…” Dutch approached him and moved to unhook the corset. 

“Can do it myself,” Arthur stepped back, avoiding eye contact.

Dutch stepped forward, resting his hands on Arthur’s waist. “Let me…” His tone was tender, as was his touch when he began removing the article. “You saved my life tonight, consider this a payback…” He chuckled quietly.

“You’d have done the same for me...” Arthur breathed deeply once the corset was tossed away.

“Of course, son...” Dutch’s hands were now gently gliding over the outline of his body.

“I’d like…” Arthur hesitated and blushed as he leant into the caresses. “I’d like something else in return…”

“Anything…” Dutch spoke immediately, bending to kiss the side of his neck, inhaling deeply. “Tell me…”

“Let me take off your clothes,” Arthur placed a hand on Dutch’s chest. “All of them…”

Dutch looked surprised initially by what seemed to him a trivial request no doubt but nodded and watched with no little amusement as Arthur proceeded to remove his waistcoat, necktie, suspenders - after playing with them a little - and trousers, shirt, union suit… Simultaneously, Dutch removed Arthur’s combination and stockings so they were both exposed now, except for the inconsequential bits covered by Arthur’s pearl necklace.

“Can’t imagine why you’d be interested in my naked body,” Dutch chuckled, standing still as Arthur ran his hands over his chest and abdomen. “You’ve seen it before a hundred times and more...”

When they were younger, yes. Arthur recalled a time when Dutch didn’t yet feel too inhibited by his position as a leader to join them for a naked dip in the lake, the two of them laughing at Marston who got to stay in the shallow waters with Hosea who happened to be an excellent swimmer, but a much kinder man. 

“I could say the same to you,” Arthur looked up at Dutch, grinning cheekily as he slid a hand to take hold of his hardening length, the fingers of the other hand gliding upwards through the coarse dark hair to pinch the man’s nipple.

Dutch abruptly eliminated the distance between them by pulling Arthur flush against him. “Oh, but you’re beautiful, Arthur…”

“As I am now?” Arthur bit down a moan when he felt Dutch’s hand kneading his buttocks. In response to the intensifying touches, he pressed his cheek on the man’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, relishing in the sensation of his naked skin hot against his own as he snaked a hand to feel the scars on his broad back. “Don’t get too used to it… This is temporary, you know…”

“If it’s temporary, I’ve all the more reason to enjoy it…” Dutch whispered while fervently kissing the top of his hair first then his face, throat, collarbones, the bullet wound...

“If?” Arthur half asked, half hissed, wrapping an arm around Dutch’s shoulder while slightly lifting a leg to rub his tingling core along the man’s naked thigh until it was slick with his fluids.

“I may want to continue enjoying this even if you turn back…” Dutch resumed, ignoring the question as he massaged Arthur’s ass, bucking into the hand trapped between their bellies.

“Hah! Like I’d let you…” Arthur gave his prick a hard squeeze, smiling to hear the man curse and rut with more urgency.

Dutch didn’t say anything, merely chuckled and removed Arthur’s hand from his cock, lifted him and carried him to the bed where he threw him without any preamble, laughing wickedly to watch him bounce on the mattress.

“Was stronger than you, remember, old man?” Arthur was in the midst of crawling away when the other man settled on the bed, moving in his direction on all fours. “I’ll be the one doing the fucking… And you better start preparing your ass cause my dick is much bigger than yours...”

“Hmm, interesting theory, though entirely false…” Dutch grabbed Arthur by the shin and pulled him under himself, pinning him to the bed, wrists held securely above.

“Not just you, I'll fuck that little shithead Marston too…” Arthur gasped to feel Dutch’s mouth on his nipple, moustache tickling his breast. “And a few others besides...”

“Micah?” Dutch raised his head and looked him in the eyes, teasing his clit with the pad of his thumb.

Arthur froze for a moment, but was too hot and bothered to overthink the other man’s words, just shook his head. “Nah, don’t think I can get it up for him… mnhmm...”

“And your photographer friend?” He shifted to his other nipple, nipping and suckling until this one was as sensitive and erect as the other, pressing his thighs open at the same time. “What was his name… Aladdin?”

It took Arthur a moment to realise Dutch meant poor Mason. “Hmm, maybe…” He freed a wrist and planted his hand on the nape of Dutch’s neck, digging his nails into the burning skin. “Why... you jealous, Dutch?”

“Me, jealous? Never…”

Dutch now relocated his attention to his belly, making Arthur moan and whimper at the delicious sensation of the man’s tongue licking all the way down to his clit, circling the twitching nub only once - _Bastard_... - before advancing onwards to his sex, which he savoured with a long swipe that sent delightful shivers through Arthur’s entire frame…

Arthur was now pulling on Dutch’s hair, ears, whatever was at hand’s reach in a silent plea to persuade the man to fuck him, but he had other plans apparently when he removed the necklace and positioned it at the leaking opening, pushing the smooth orbs inside one by one, two by two, gaze fixed on a mewling Arthur, who gasped in surprise when the necklace was pulled out rapidly. Dutch didn’t seem to have it in him to torment him any further that night, however, since he didn’t waste anymore time to line up his angry-looking cock with the needy entrance and inserted himself, tortuously slow at first, laughing darkly when Arthur pushed back against him in frustration. He lost control himself after Arthur contracted his walls around him, thrust instantly and was fully sheathed in a second, head thrown back in pleasure. 

“Kiss me, Dutch, kiss me…” Arthur sighed, not waiting for the other’s reaction to draw him into a feverish kiss, tongue dancing on tongue, moaning into the other’s mouth as he felt his hot shaft forced into his aching depths, expanding him to the brim, filling, fulfilling... Before Arthur knew it his orgasm came crashing upon him and he almost felt ashamed to have come so quickly until he remembered he didn’t have to maintain an erection… Besides, Dutch seemed to be pleased, judging by his amplified groans and accelerated thrusts. 

In his hazy euphoria, it occurred to him how different this was compared to what he had experienced with the other men he’d been with. John, or even Micah, never quite allowed him to lose himself like this; he had always remained Arthur Morgan, either the big brother or the rival, and never the half-thing he felt to be now, joined with another half-thing, since Dutch seemed to have lost a vestige of himself as well. 

“From behind…” He heard himself murmuring.

Dutch must have misunderstood him, since he merely rolled him over and pushed his cock back into his cunt. Perhaps it was for the best, Arthur thought, they could always try that another time… And soon all thoughts of next or previous times were lost to him when Dutch resumed palming his tender breasts, tugging on the nipples, his sweat dripping on his back as he drove his hips forward savagely, leaning to bite him on the nape... Arthur moaned loudly and his hand flew to his still throbbing clit which he began flicking and rubbing, intense pleasure coiling in his belly as he felt Dutch pushing in, pushing out, in, out, in, out, before thrusting one final time at the very moment Arthur’s second climax blasted through his quivering body. His eyes remained shut as he allowed himself to float all the way up to the seventh heaven, limbs blissfully numb as he collapsed on the mattress with Dutch on top of him, the latter’s hot cum seeping from his sore pussy along the environs of the man’s still pulsing cock. 

“Dutch…” He voiced sleepily moments later when they were cuddling under the light bedding in the dark, the other holding him from behind as he softly brushed his damp hair with his fingers.

“Hmm?” 

“You think that shop…” He yawned, “...in the corner...” Another yawn and he felt his consciousness ebbing, “...sells gherkins?”

“Arthur, are you…”

He didn’t hear the rest, however, as sleep whisked him away.


	20. His capacity for innocent enjoyment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Josiah’s POV.
> 
> A half a day in the life of Mister Trelawny.

“Mister Trelawny, I owe you.”

“Whatever for, Miss Jackson?”

“Was you who told Mister Smith my whereabouts, I understand.”

“Oh that... It’s nothing, my dear girl. It was my duty.” 

Josiah tipped his hat at the young lady, only he put too much pressure on his fingers and the boater flipped over to reveal a bunch of wild flowers of various colours neatly arranged in a posy which he offered to Miss Jackson. Tilly laughed, quirked an incredulous eyebrow and retreated towards the house with the posy in her hand. She was a clever one, Miss Jackson, and Josiah had found himself quite concerned to hear of her disappearance sometime after they moved to the new campsite. Thankfully, after a bit of quizzing here and there he had learned about her abduction by the Foreman brothers. Immediately he informed Charles who managed to get to her in time to prevent any serious injury. Still, this was no life for one so young and with so much potential as Miss Jackson. Josiah wondered if there was anything he could do to change that...

However, any plan of that sort would have to wait. Following the Grand Karrigan affair, he needed some time off. The job itself had been stressful enough, what with Josiah having to work on passing Pearson off as an oil magnate. He still couldn’t fathom why Dutch had sent the cook instead of Hosea, or even John, but fortunately Pearson turned out to be a capable poker player and his garrulous nature had a positive effect on their target, who seemed not to take his opponent too seriously. Lucky for them, also, Desmond Blythe was rather distracted throughout the evening, apparently due to having heard some upsetting rumours about a relative of his who had made a spectacle of themselves at the mayor’s party. Oh well… Josiah was not one to judge, let each person have their fun in whichever way they wished, especially if certain eccentricities resulted in turning the wheels to his benefit. 

Even so, he wasn’t pleased at all that his new suit was ruined by being submerged in Saint Denis sewage water after a hasty escape from the riverboat, and now he was looking for Dutch to tell him, as a courtesy, that he would be staying away for a while. Besides, since Grimshaw had gone folk seemed to have become even more uncivilised than he would have thought possible; some didn’t even wash anymore, the laundry was never done properly, there was no soap to be found anywhere, and more than once he had discovered a drunk Williamson or Uncle sleeping in his designated sleeping area. Quite intolerable.

On his way to Dutch’s room, he came across young Mr Summers leaning against a tree, reading a newspaper. 

“Good afternoon! Is that today’s paper by any chance?”

“Mr Trelawny,” Summers returned his greeting. “Yesterday’s, I don’t think we have today’s yet. I’m done reading, would you like to have a look?”

“Thanks, my boy.”

He had just got hold of the gazette when Williamson approached them with a message for Lenny from the boss, asking the young man to get Marston and meet him in Saint Denis outside the trolley station.

“Is there anything the matter?” Josiah asked, looking carefully at Bill who kept lingering even after Summers had left.

Bill grimaced and sighed. “Dutch asked me to do something but I’m not sure I know how, and it makes no sense to me anyway…”

“Tell me, Bill, I’ll do my best to help you,” Josiah promised, his curiosity peaked.

“You live in Saint Denis, don’t you?”

Was there anyone who didn’t know, Josiah wondered, sighing as he responded: “In a manner of speaking… I do sometimes reside in the city.”

“Do you happen to know where I can find a dozen boxes of gherkins?”

“Gherkins?” Josiah blinked. “What for?”

“Don’t ask me! Told you it didn’t make sense to me neither…”

“Right…” He eyed Williamson with a measure of pity. Dutch must be further gone than he’d initially imagined. “Worry not. I might have a friend at the market who’d be able to help, I’ll ask him to set some aside for you.”

“Thanks, Josiah. You’re a good fellow...”

“No need to mention it!”

Josiah shook his head and sighed as he opened the gazette and began reading, one foot propped over a knee while he sat down on a chair on the veranda. 

_Last night our beloved city was grossly disturbed by the macabre spectacle of a ghostly bride riding a fiery-eyed black steed trotting through the main boulevard. A number of eyewitnesses claim they have seen the ghost in the swamps to the north as well, but this was the first sighting inside the city. Furthermore, the bride seemed to have been accompanied by the groom. One Constable Rice swears he tried to grab the bloody dress but his hand went right through the skirt. The most popular theory is that the bride has finally taken revenge on the groom, who many years ago abandoned her in the bayou, and now that their souls are united she was showing off her victory before they both traverse to the afterworld, or so we may hope…_

Hmm, well, this wasn’t exactly the sort of news he was looking for... Josiah continued reading.

_What a grand triumph! The mayor’s ball has been recognised by all as the greatest event of the year thus far. Not only was the feast as lavish as one could hope, with exotic food aplenty and champagne flowing, but the gala was garnished with the company of many great men, and one extraordinary woman: Mrs Amethyst Blythe. The lady is believed to be the aunt of none other than Hosiery King, Mr Desmond Blythe. Having diverted the guests with stories of her travels all the way from China to Africa, Mrs Blythe carried on by sharing the experience of her sojourn in the tropical island of Tahiti, where she claims to have modelled for an up and coming French painter or two. The good lady has allegedly received many invitations and some notables have even requested that she gives speeches at their charity events, although others were of the opinion that her conversation was highly inappropriate for decent settings. She was last seen leaving the party accompanied by socialite Lillian Powell who had offered Mrs Blythe a ride in her opulent vehicle..._

Hmmm, interesting woman. Josiah was almost certain she was a counterfeit, but decided he would attempt to make the lady’s acquaintance. She must be quite talented to have garnered this many admirers... On to the next article.

_In a most unexpected turn of events, it has come to pass that the long missing Princess Isabeau Katharina Zinsmeister was observed attending Mayor Lemieux’s ball. Those who believe it was truly her seem to provide contradictory accounts. Some say she is mute, some say she is blind, and a prominent source who wishes to remain anonymous has informed us that the princess is inclined towards certain fixations... One maid claims to have seen her engaged in a compromising exchange with a man she described as ‘undeniably villainous’ and ‘a veritable Montoni’. What we know for sure is that the princess seems to have left a shoe behind. Was it a cry for help, perhaps? We may never know… But the fact of the article’s abandonment has provided enough motivation for a few hopeful or otherwise idle folk to embark on a search for the right foot, as it were. The Luxembourg royal family have been notified but we are yet to receive their response..._

Goodness gracious, the gazette was turning into a damned tabloid! Josiah folded the paper and cast it aside, determined to have a word with its editor once he had a chance. He was about to resume his search for Dutch when he saw little Jack gingerly advancing in his direction. An instant smile sat on the corner of his lips. He always had a soft spot for Jack who reminded him of his Cornelius. It was such a pity that the boy had to live like this. He seemed to be intelligent and yet with semi-literate parents who couldn’t even get themselves sorted he would probably get nowhere in life, either end up on the run like them or if he was lucky become a petty clerk gradually worked to death. Josiah had wanted to talk to Marston about finding an apprenticeship for the boy somewhere in the city but decided it was none of his business after all. Both John and Abigail had a temper and he was loathe to insinuate they were inadequate parents...

“What is it, my boy?” He asked after realising he had been quietly staring at Jack for a while now. 

“Uncle Arthur asked me to give this to you.” The boy shyly handed him a note before running off.

The first thing that caught Josiah’s attention on scanning the note was Arthur’s refined handwriting. It wasn’t as elegant as Dutch’s, to be sure, but not like anything he would expect from a hardened outlaw. The note itself was short, asking if Josiah could meet with Morgan’s former paramour. Apparently she had asked for Morgan’s help and he was reluctant to appear before her in his current guise. The note further explained that she was staying in Hotel Grand and the request had something to do with her father, about whom Arthur had nothing flattering to say.

Josiah exhaled deeply. He was reluctant to engage in too many gang businesses - and this was one too, even if it only concerned Morgan - in a town where he was hoping to keep up a respectable appearance, this being one of the reasons why he had rejected Dutch’s invitation to the mayor’s gala. He would see what he could do, if he had the time. At times like this he wished he could pull a magic trick and create two or more versions of himself and send them on errands of this sort...

Pocketing the note, he decided he wouldn’t let anything or anyone stop him as he headed, for the third time, in the direction of Dutch’s room, not even stopping when he observed a worried Miss Gaskill running about asking people if they’d seen Mr Duffy. Come to think of it…

“Why can’t I go? You didn’t even tell me about the riverboat job, sent Charles to see Miller, and now this!?”

It was Morgan, who had just burst out of his room, followed by the boss himself. Josiah made way for them as they paced the distance towards Dutch’s room and headed for the balcony, sparing him cursory nods on the way. He followed them.

“Arthur…” Dutch stopped before the railing and turned on his heels, pointing his cigar at Morgan. “You have another task, remember?”

“I ain’t going cylinder shopping!” A vexed Morgan spat, pushing the boss’s hand away from his face. “I don’t even know what sort of music you like, all sounds the same to me!”

“I’ll give you a list.”

Morgan completely ignored that last bit of information as he continued: “Lenny is young and inexperienced and Marston is even worse!”

“They are both perfectly capable. Don’t argue with me, Arthur. The decision is final, Hosea agrees too.” Dutch’s voice became softer. “Be a good boy now, hmm?”

“Hosea ain’t even here…” Morgan murmured, looking none the less angry. 

“You’re always complaining how we’ve been using you like a workhorse, now this is your chance to rest.” Dutch placed his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “I need you strong for when we hit Hosea’s bank.”

Morgan sighed and moved back. “Why do I get the feeling you aren’t telling me something, Dutch…”

“And here I thought I was the paranoid one!” The other man chuckled, before suddenly turning towards him: “Mr Trelawny.”

Josiah switched out of his audience mode and tipped his head. “Dutch.”

“You seem to have something to say to me, and I’m afraid I’m a bit busy at the moment. Why don’t you talk to Arthur instead? You can tell her whatever you’d like to tell me.”

Josiah didn’t really wish to speak with a brooding Morgan, but perhaps this was better than talking to Dutch directly. The man had a talent for seeming friendly when he was feeling otherwise, and he didn’t wish to be the recipient of the boss’s frustrations. He lit Morgan’s cigarette with a flick of his thumb, then lit one for himself. It was mint flavoured.

“So, you have something to say?” Morgan took a deep drag from his cigarette.

“Might I first congratulate you on your new choice of attire?” Josiah smiled charmingly, or that was the intention anyway. “I rather like this all black look… Well, there is some brown too, but very nice... Much better than those dirty blue shirts your wore, or was it just one?”

“Very funny… Let me remind you, Mr Trelawny, I’ve got many more mouths to feed than you do.”

“True that!” Josiah’s smile waned as he took on a more serious stance. “Though you could have, you know, had only three or four to take care of… I never quite realised why you didn’t marry Mary Gillis.”

“Long story…” Arthur dropped his head briefly, but was pretty calm when he looked back at him. “Short of it is that she didn’t want me… Jack gave you my note? I’d much appreciate it if you could help her with whatever she wants. She asked for my help back in Valentine, to save her brother from Chelonian clutches, and I didn’t have the time… Now I reckon perhaps I should have…”

“I’ll see what I can do, but I’m hesitant to make too much noise in Saint Denis…”

“I understand. Be sure to ask me a favour in return whenever…” 

Listening to Morgan speak, Josiah suspected he might be correct in assuming that the failure of Arthur’s courtship of Mary could not have entirely to do with her choices. Handsome devil like him, if he wanted to he could have persuaded her to elope with him, knock her up, then enjoy daddy’s money for the rest of his life. The rest were excuses. It was interesting, nonetheless, that the man still seemed to be in denial about who he really was and what he wanted. He wondered if Morgan would ever come to accept the possibility that he liked being an outlaw, perhaps even more than the prospect of wedding his sweetheart. Josiah had seen him in the act of killing and the glint in his eyes was enough evidence to support his theory. The guilt, he reflected, must have come about as a result of being raised by both Hosea and Dutch. Anyhow… Josiah was just about to tell Morgan that he would be leaving them for a while, when they heard a loud scream - Miss Gaskill, if he wasn’t mistaken - and at the same time saw a horse approaching the manor mounted by a headless rider… 

Everything happened so fast after that. Dutch was back in the balcony and they were soon engaged in an all out gunfight with O’Driscolls who were pouring in from every direction. Josiah managed to stay unharmed, though his boater wasn’t as lucky, and by the time the commotion was over, he felt rather hesitant to stay any longer, or indeed to ask for permission to leave. He exhaled a sigh of relief to see Gwydion was safe, quickly mounted him after a careful inspection, and they were gone without much ado. These sort of violent encounters were becoming increasingly frequent, Josiah reflected as he set in a canter towards the city, reminding himself how he was not a cowardly man, rather a gent who found nothing as boring as predictability...

On his way to Saint Denis, Josiah recalled he had been invited to dinner at Alden and Hector’s secret love nest tomorrow evening. He had advised them both to move to New York, but they didn’t seem to be ready for that just yet, so he had helped them acquire a flat for a decent price in Saint Denis and they wanted to celebrate the occasion with him. They were both still unhappily married, of course, but according to an elated Alden they hoped to meet at least once a month in their new home. Josiah made a mental note not to forget the dinner.

It was Tarquin who opened the door and wasted no time jumping into his embrace. Josiah hugged the boy tightly before kissing little Cornelius and then the hand of his darling wife, who was beside herself for not having prepared enough dinner for four. She was always fussy when it came to matters of hospitality and it was one of the things he loved about her. And the food was always enough. 

“How long are you staying this time, my dear?” His wife asked halfway through dinner.

“A bit more than usual, I reckon.”

Josiah smiled to notice the deepening dimples on his wife’s cheeks. She was too proper to ever express anything but the mildest amount of joy. It had to do with her upbringing as the daughter of an impoverished old money family, and so Josiah never pressed her for more. He sipped some claret, wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin and winked at a giggling Cornelius.

“Darling, do you remember that young lady I mentioned, the one who sometimes does odd jobs at the office?”

“Miss Jackson?”

“The very same! She is grown up quite nicely, and I wonder, wouldn’t it be grand if we introduced her to your lawyer friend?”

“Mr Pierre?” She frowned slightly, placing her fork down as was her wont when concentrating. “He did mention he was looking to marry… Though I suspect he is looking for someone with a bit of dowry. Miss Jackson is not terribly well-off, is she?”

“I’m afraid not… Any chance we can change his mind? She is pretty resourceful and I’m sure she’d be able to help him increase his prospects.”

“Well, we can try…”

“Let’s do that, darling… In fact, why don’t I give a try at speaking with him when he is back from Haiti?”

“If you succeed, Josiah dear, it would be your best trick yet!”

They clinked their glasses together.


	21. Or gli perdono!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dutch’s POV.
> 
> Philosophy lesson with Mr Van der Linde.
> 
> Gets pretty dark in the end...

The only time Dutch ceased to think was when he was killing. Not with a gun, which still required a bit of strategising and coordination, but when he killed with his bare hands. He loved thinking of course, it was what he was best at. For the same reason any activity that offered him some respite from thinking was welcome. And now, drowning Bronte, he felt nothing but pure visceral bliss, enhanced with every reduction in the victim’s will to survive. His hands, his arms, his entire frame felt stronger than ever, not to mention his cock, which had become painfully erect in a manner of seconds. He panted in excitement as he toppled the man over into the water, watching as the hungry reptile neared the corpse with an unearthly height of gratification. 

As for his companions, say what they will, they were killers too. He had noticed how each one of his men killed differently. Hosea killed out of necessity. Arthur killed with a religious sort of fervour, patiently bearing a conflict between guilt and enjoyment. Micah - who had been excused from joining them that night on account of being traumatised after his balls were almost ripped off by the bull gator - killed with pain, projecting all his hurt onto his targets. Bill without thinking, following orders. Javier was the opposite, he killed because of his ideals. Summers with naive enthusiasm. Smith… he hadn’t quite yet deciphered. And John… Well, John was John. And he needed to be taught not to question him in front of others just as they had finished dealing with one of their most dangerous enemies. 

“John, you’re coming with me.”

By the time they got to the bookshop, it was already past midnight. Dutch broke the lock while John kept watch. He lit a match and embarked on a search for a specific book. It took him a good while to find it, but there it was, filed under the romantic fiction section for heaven knows what reason. He pulled the book out, blew the dust away and motioned for John to follow him outside the shop, but not before placing some cash near the till. Books, he always paid for. 

“Where are we going?” 

He could tell John was tired, was probably even suppressing a yawn. But it didn’t matter, he would wake up soon enough.

“To this charming village I came across the other day. You’ll see.”

He spurred the Count onwards to prevent Marston from asking more questions. Now that the thrill of the kill was over, all his worries came rushing back. They needed to act fast, hit the bank before the gangsters had a chance to regroup and appoint a new leader. And yet he had a bad feeling about the heist, which was unusual, and he reasoned with himself that he was yet to hear Hosea’s reconnaissance report and reminded himself that he trusted his partner to know what he was doing. Another issue was whether he should allow Arthur to come, or indeed if he could prevent her from coming. Since the night after the mayor’s party, he had experienced various sentiments concerning his suspicion that Arthur might be pregnant. Given the possibility that the father could be some random O’Driscoll mercenary, he had imagined he would be devastated by the discovery, to the point of asking her to abort the pregnancy. And yet, oddly enough, he felt… content. Not because the child could be John’s, as he had planned and would be ideal, but because it was Arthur’s. He suddenly felt protective of her, and curious, to see for example what eye-colour the child would have, if it was a boy or a girl, and in case of the latter he already intended to call her Greta Beatrice... All this depending on whether Arthur wanted to keep it, that is. So far she seemed to be blissfully oblivious.

“Pleasance!?” Marston was staring at him with widened eyes. “Some _charming_ village…”

They dismounted and kicked in a few doors until Dutch found what he was looking for in a medium-sized shack. There were no bodies inside and not that many furniture except for a few desks and a blackboard. He asked John to fetch some candles from the other cabins and lit them once he was back, placing one on a desk where he gestured for John to sit at. 

“What’s this?” Marston asked, suspiciously eyeing the book Dutch had placed in front of him.

“An English translation of _The Prince_ by a wise renaissance man called Machiavelli. Be kind enough to read from the beginning of this chapter.”

John did as he was told though he still looked baffled.

“Listen, son,” Dutch began, pulling out a gun oil container from his pocket. “I want you to start reading and not stopping until I tell you to.”

“What for?” 

“You had doubts about my philosophy, if I’m not mistaken. I think it’s time I explain a few things to you.”

“Come on, Dutch! I didn’t mean it in a-”

“This is a bit beyond your level, so I’ll go easy on you.”

“Easy for what?”

“See this, son,” He held the gun oil before John. “I’m going to use this to fuck you. For every mistake you make one drop falls to the floor. And it’s not full to begin with, mind.”

“How’s that going easy!?”

“You can read slowly, that’s were the kindness lies.” Dutch explained, and when John said nothing and glared at him, he urged him on: “Go on.”

John sighed and bent over the book, brow furrowed in concentration. “Chapter X, V, double I…” 

“Chapter seventeen,” Dutch corrected him and motioned for him to continue while letting a drop of oil trickle onto the floor.

“That’s not fair!” 

“Hmm, no such sentence,” Dutch raised an eyebrow, dripping more oil. “As far as I can see, it reads: _Coming now to the other qualities mentioned above_...”

Marston gritted his teeth and huffed but resumed reading. Progress was slow, but he could see the boy was trying. Gradually he circled the chair and stood behind John, a hand resting on his shoulder, squeezing whenever he paused for too long.

“What is it?” Dutch enquired when John stopped and raised a hand. “You may speak freely.” 

“What the hell does this even mean!?” 

“Which part?”

“The shit about the prince being both cruel and... clement,” John turned to look at him. 

“It means, my boy,” He tilted John’s head back towards the page by a press of a finger on his chin: “That I had to feed Bronte to alligators to protect you and the others. We can’t afford to be merciful when we need to send a message. Continue.”

John shrugged and continued reading. 

“ _Nevertheless he... ought to be slow to believe and to act, nor should he himself show fear, but proceed in a... temperate manner with... prudence and humanity_... Hah, you forgot this bit, I bet!” 

John’s grin disappeared when Dutch poured a good few drops on the crotch of his jeans. 

“Just because you don’t see me planning ahead doesn’t mean that I don’t,” He explained for John’s benefit, leaning to steal a quick kiss from the corner of his cheeky mouth before shifting the oil container to his other hand and gripping the boy’s groin with the other, massaging the spilled oil into the fabric. 

John’s voice hitched as he went on, missing the rest of the sentence and instead moving to a new paragraph: “ _Upon this a question... arises: whether it be better to be loved than feared... or, mmm... feared than loved? It may be, ah... answered that one should wish to be both, but_...” 

Dutch was minding the mistakes less and less now while paying more and more attention to the lovely scent of John’s neck, the smooth texture of skin just below his earlobe which he licked and kissed, savouring the salty flesh. His hand moved to open the boy’s trousers and slipped in to stroke the half-hard member. It warmed his heart to see how John was stubbornly striving to maintain his focus, even as his back arched into his touch and his hips bucked, gasps interrupting the reading. 

“... _and in time of need cannot be relied upon_ …” He continued but came to a halt when Dutch gave a particularly tight squeeze to his balls and tried to push a finger into his hole. Damn, the jeans were tight!

Dutch now continued reading in John’s stead, whispering in his ear: “... _and men have less scruple in offending one who is beloved than one who is feared_.” The finger finally slipped in to the first knuckle. “ _For love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage_.” He massaged John’s perineum with his thumb for a few seconds before shifting his hand to grip the base of his prick. “ _But fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails_...” He interrupted his own reading to kiss John’s mouth, deeply, with sovereign urgency, while his fingers were coated in a copious amount of pre-cum that he used to lubricate the shaft for easier handling. “ _Nevertheless a prince ought to inspire fear in such a way that, if he does not win love, he avoids hatred_... Do you hate me, John?”

Marston looked perplexed, so he repeated the question. In answer, he received a most delicious kiss, the unexpected force of which almost made him drop the gun oil. He had to chastise the boy by pulling him off the chair and bending him over the desk, yanking down his jeans and giving his ass a hard spank, or two, or eight. John struggled to get up but Dutch pushed him back down, tore the flap of his union suit open and poured the oil on his buttocks and proceeded to finger his entrance with two digits until John was moaning and wriggling and pushing back into his fingers. His own cock was demandingly rigid by the time the hole was nice and slack, ready to be enjoyed. Dutch freed his length and pressed it to the winking opening, then abruptly changed his mind as he decided he rather wished to fuck John face-up so he could see his expression, which had pleased him immensely last time. So he flipped the boy over, ripped off the jeans, forced his legs up and apart, one propped on his shoulder as he pushed in to the hilt, grunting in sheer rapture at the sensation. God, he was tight…

While waiting for a panting John to adjust to his girth, Dutch asked him to hold the candle in his hand, rescued the book from under his shivering frame, tore his shirt and union suit open, placed the volume on his bare stomach, pressing it in place with a hand while the other stroked John’s prick in a tortuously slow pace. 

“ _But when a prince is with his army, and has **under** control a multitude of **soldiers**_ ,” Dutch began reading, punctuating certain words with powerful thrusts into the maddeningly melting-hot passage. “ _Then it is quite **necessary** for him to disregard the reputation of **cruelty** , for without it he would never hold his army **united** or disposed to its **duties**_.”

“Fuck, fuck…” John gasped, defiant eyes trained on his, candlelight shaking along with his hand.

Dutch read the part in praise of Hannibal and how there had been never any dissensions among his soldiers: “ _This **arose** from nothing **else** than his inhuman **cruelty** , which, with his boundless **valour** , made him **revered** and **terrible** in the sight of his **soldiers**_...” 

He was beginning to sweat now as his pace increased, and he nearly came when the little minx wrapped a leg around his waist, drawing him farther in. Dutch lacked the concentration to read anymore, the lines went blurry before his eyes and he simply had to lean in and kiss John’s parted lips, then his neck, chewing, sucking, hand working fast until the boy orgasmed, mewling and wanting and hot and wet, muscles spasming around his expanding shaft, the pleasure threatening to drive him insane beyond repair until his own cock exploded, and he growled with loud abandon to feel John’s fingers tugging on his hair while he bred him. 

Once he had caught his breath, he leaned back, still lodged inside John, whom he observed with a measure of affectionate wonder, smiling as he lightly slapped him on his scarred cheek. He never quite believed how good it felt to fuck John until he had done just that. The boy winced and whined when he pulled out and remained lying on the desk with the stupid candle in his hand as Dutch sat himself on the chair, panting heavily. Eventually, he picked up the cum-soiled book. 

“ _Returning to the question of being feared or loved, I come to the conclusion that, men loving according to their own will and fearing according to that of the prince, a wise prince should establish himself on that which is in his own control and not in that of others._ ” He finished the chapter’s final paragraph, omitting one inconsequential line, eyes lifting to fix on John who was returning his gaze. “So… have you learned your lesson, son?”

John sat up, smirked. “You didn’t look much in control when you were drowning Bronte, old man…”

The brat. He aimed the book at his head but he dodged, expression even more cocky than before.

“Why did you tell Arthur not to forget love?” John asked more or less seriously, wiping the remainder of the cum off his chest and bringing his fingers up to his mouth to suck on. “According to this Machi fellow you’d want us to fear you, right?” 

“You’ll understand if you read further,” Dutch smiled knowingly and got up, making his way to the door. “Don’t forget the book. You’ll have an exam in the near future. I advise you to finish it before then, unless you crave the switch...” 

He didn’t hear John’s complaint and didn’t wait for him as he mounted Count and headed for the camp. The road was rather long and solitude did him little favour in preventing unwelcome thoughts to flood his mind again, one phrase in particular wouldn’t leave him alone. 

_You don’t even possess your own men…_

Part of him knew Bronte’s remark was nonsense spoken out of bitterness, but part of him was also aware that things could change. People changed. He could already see it in their doubting glances, hear it in their questions. Even Hosea, and Arthur, and John… Not to mention this was the second time he had been reminded not to take his men’s loyalty for granted. Milton was an enemy as well, but it would be wise to listen to one’s enemies once in a while. 

Arriving at the manor, Dutch realised that despite being exhausted he couldn’t sleep. He sat on the foot of the bed, brow resting on his clenched hands propped on his knees.

“Are you alright?”

It was Arthur. He turned to look at her, trying to gauge her thoughts, wondering what lingered behind those concerned eyes. Betrayal? Mockery? Leaving love aside... Those were her words during the boat ride. Indeed, what is the point in doing otherwise... It hurt in that particular moment to recall another passage from the book: _Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that they are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as you succeed they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood, property, life, and children, as is said above, when the need is far distant; but when it approaches they turn against you_...

“Arthur, do you fear me?”

“No, Dutch... What sort of question is that?”

He looked at her, wondering if she would leave as soon as she found out she was with child. Take John with her maybe, and Abigail and Jack. One big family, building a love-ranch for themselves and living happily ever after, not giving a shit if the freedom they had fought for all these years went to hell.

“You should.”

“What do you mean? I should what?”

She came and stood before him, and kneeling she held his hands in hers, stroking his palms with her thumbs, gently, kissing his fingers, one by one, softly.

“Fear me. It would be better that way, for both of us.”

“I don’t get you, Dutch,” She looked up at him, confused, angry. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He clasped her hands and crushed them in his, hard enough to make any woman scream but she wouldn’t, blue eyes adamantly fixed on his as she tried to blink her tears away. When she eventually gave in and gasped, he shoved her away, laughing slowly as he stood beside her curling form.

“Do you get me now, Arthur?” He pointed to the door. “Leave.”

Dutch took a cigar from the nightstand and moved to the balcony. He didn’t hear the door closing but could sense her absence. Moments later, when he had just taken the fifth puff at his cigar, he saw Mary-Beth crying silently next to a tree, probably because of that boy Duffy. He couldn’t say he minded his loss much, and in his darkest moments he had suspected Duffy might have squealed before being tortured and killed, which explained why the O’Driscolls knew where they were… He could comfort Mary-Beth, however. She would make a good replacement for Molly. She was clever enough to be appealing and to not demand too much of him. 

“What’s the matter, my dear?” 

She seemed to not have noticed his approach, which made her flinch in surprise. “Nothing! I’m... fine, thanks for asking.”

He grabbed her forearm as she moved to leave. Oh no, she wasn’t getting away…

“I’m sorry…” He relaxed his grip, though didn’t remove his fingers from her delicate wrist.

“What for?” She looked puzzled now rather than scared.

“About Kieran,” Dutch continued, donning his best remorseful impression. “I failed you all, again. First Blackwater, then Valentine, Sean, and Kieran… I should have known better. I should have been a better leader.” He looked her in the eyes, gaze determined. “But I want you to know: I _am_ trying…”

“No need to apologise to me, Dutch!” She blushed, dithered, tried to comfort him. How sweet. “I know-”

“Do you have faith in me, Miss Gaskill?” He inched closer so that her back was almost touching the bark.

“I… I do! We are all just worried...”

“You don’t need to be,” His voice was velvet soft. “I will protect you, I promise.” He moved a hand to caress her curled locks. “Will you let me, Mary-Beth?”

She blushed and lowered her eyes.

“I need you to let me…”

He could almost hear her little heart pounding as he leaned in to kiss her gently on the cheek, hand slipping from her wrist to take hers, fingers curling in each other. He withdrew slightly and looked her in the eyes. Hesitant, but willing. He kissed her again, this time on the lips, with minimal tongue and increased passion, his other hand moving to rest on her waist, drawing her into his embrace. She had just wound an arm about his shoulder and was pressing her delicate frame against him when he decided it was enough. For now, at least. 

Dutch moved back, smiling to hear the girl inhale deeply. “Thank you, my darling, for trusting me.” He bent and placed a kiss on her knuckles before returning to his bedroom.

There was no rush. He could have her anytime he wanted, and so he decided to save it as a reward for a job well done. A good leader was strict on himself more than the others, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve used [this translation](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/1232/1232-h/1232-h.htm) of the book, which is from early 20th century, but let’s assume Dutch is reading a contemporary volume!


	22. There’s a boat that’s leaving soon for New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s POV.
> 
> Sad sex alert!
> 
> Pronoun shifts as usual… (seriously, thanks for putting up with this!)

John was relieved to hear the first birdsongs. He hadn’t been able to sleep all night and kept turning on his bedroll, trying to get some rest as instructed by Hosea. Following the call on Bronte he had spent the entire day sleeping and so had tried to volunteer for night shift but had been told to save his strength for the bank job scheduled for the day after. The excitement and the stress didn’t help making it easier for him to remain calm either. He was worried for Abigail who was to have a big role in the heist, and the fact that he too was to be playing a part meant that if both of them got killed or arrested then Jack would lose both his parents...

Exhaling a sigh, he took his eyes off the sleeping boy and his momma, and slipped into his clothes quietly. As soon as he was out on the veranda, he stretched his aching limbs and took in a deep breath, enjoying the early morning air as he tried to ignore the sticky sensation of waking up after a sleepless night. Maybe he should wash, he thought and sniffing himself he decided it could wait until after the gig. 

Strolling towards the southern section of the grounds surrounding the plantation house, he was surprised to come across Morgan standing next to the water, his legs open, hands held somewhere in front of him, and John would have assumed he was relieving himself had it not been for the lack of the necessary appendage. With a grin crossing his face, he sneaked up on Arthur and whispered in a low tone: “What are you up to, my boy?”

“The fuck, Marston!” Arthur yelled, punching him hard in the midriff in a hopefully involuntary reaction. “Nearly had me drop the damned camera, you idiot…”

“What are you taking photos of this early in the morning?” He asked, rubbing his poor stomach.

“A snowy egret, until you came and scared it off…” Arthur sighed, closing the aperture and placing the device in his satchel. “Why are you up this early?”

John shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep…”

“Worried?”

“Yeah, well, for Abigail…”

“She’ll be fine,” Arthur reassured him as they began on a slow stroll by the water edge. 

“Why are you up?”

“Couldn’t sleep neither…” Arthur’s eyebrows met in a light frown. “Marston, have you ever thought of leaving?”

“What?”

“Well, of course you have, but I mean, as in for good?” Morgan’s eyes were trained on him, scrutinising, as if willing to penetrate his mind. “What made you come back when you left?”

John lowered his head. “I don’t know… I guess, to be honest, I was just bored of being alone?” He briefly looked at Arthur and founding his gaze harsh and unforgiving, he averted his eyes again. “I never planned to leave to begin with. Just got up one morning and got on my horse and headed out and didn’t feel like coming back, so I kept on moving… But then it got to a point where I didn’t know what to do with all the freedom… Why, you’re not thinking of leaving, are you?”

“Maybe…”

The answer shocked him. He squinted his eyes as if it could somehow help him find out if Arthur was being serious. He looked serious alright, but he also had a history of donning a stern impression as a prelude to a joke.

“Why?” John asked, standing and leaning next to a tree as he lit two cigarettes, handing one to Morgan.

“I met this photographer fellow,” Arthur took the cigarette and took a long drag. “Albert Mason. A total goof of a man, but very wise in a way… See, even though he’s scared shit of wild animals and knows nothing about them he still goes about taking their pictures! He doesn’t look it, but he’s a brave fellow to be sure… Was thinking if I had half his courage I might have left and done something else with my life. It may not be too late even now...” 

“Leave and go like where?”

“New York?” Arthur was looking at him now, expression pensive. “Albert is returning there at some point, to have his pictures shown in a gallery. Thought it might be nice going with him, see the city in a better light maybe, before moving west… Could even put some of my own photos on show, who knows, I even have some nice pictures of you fellows… You could become famous, Scarface Johnny Boy!”

John was definitely not as amused at the notion as Arthur himself was and he was getting a bit tired of hearing so much about this Albert fellow, whom he disliked already. 

“So… You’d just up and leave to become some roaming artist?” The words came out in an accusatory tone, he realised belatedly.

“Why not?” Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Follow my own dream for a change. We both know Tahiti ain’t happening…”

“Well, I agree on that point…”

“And not with my leaving?”

John shifted his stance and sighed. “It’s just weird if you leave… You’ve always been here, don’t think it’ll be the same without you.”

“It’s already not the same anymore, John.” There was a tint of anger in Morgan’s remark. “Just look at the state of us! This damned house…”

“I thought you liked it here?”

“Can’t say I do anymore,” Arthur’s frown deepened. “Even the name, Shady Belle, reminds me of that bastard Micah...”

They both laughed, then looked at each other, then lowered their heads. It had been a while since they had laughed together like that. 

“So… What about Mrs Adler? And Charles?” John said after a moment of smoke-infused silence.

“What about them?”

“They’ll miss you…” He scraped the dirt with his feet, looking down but at nothing special.

“How do you know?” Arthur chuckled. 

“I dunno…” John smiled. “But I can tell they will.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Marston,” Morgan elbowed him. “Even if they do, they’ll get over it, they aren’t kids…”

“You think it’s childish to miss someone?” He persisted, sounding a bit churlish now. “So you didn’t miss me when I was gone?”

Arthur looked at him for a moment with an expression that suggested he couldn’t quite see how those two questions were related.

“Nah…” He finally said, grinning. “I was over the moon. One less shitty brat to worry about…”

“You worry about me?” He couldn’t help but feel a bit happy.

“Now don’t feel too special, boy,” Arthur reached and ruffled his head like he used to when they were both much younger. “I worry about everyone and everything, which is why I need a break. Haven’t been feeling so lively as of late, either. Think I might have lost much of the enthusiasm for the outlaw life...”

“When are you fixing to leave then?” John’s irritation wiggled its way in-between his words again.

Arthur thought a bit. “Probably after today’s job. If it goes well and we get enough money to send everyone somewhere safe, then I reckon things will be calmer and I can just slip off…”

“You ain’t gonna tell Dutch and Hosea?” 

Morgan shrugged, took the last drag of his cigarette and threw the butt into the mud, burying it with a press of the sole of his boot. He looked somewhat down, which made John feel even worse, even if he felt a bit proud for being the only person Arthur had chosen to confide in. This was bad. He was sure the old men wouldn’t like it at all. Dutch would be furious and Hosea’s heart would break. On top of that it might mean Abigail and him couldn’t talk to Hosea as they had planned to, if he decided to go along with that idea, that is. At the same time, he didn’t want to be selfish. He had already had his chance at leaving the gang and had blown it. It was only fair for now to be Morgan’s chance. Still, it occurred to him how it didn’t feel like Arthur at all to just want to suddenly abandon them all and follow some dreams he had never mentioned before in a busy city like New York of all places! Something must have happened… He would have to find out what.

“I bet Charles wouldn’t like it that you’re going off with some photographer fellow,” Was all he could think of to say for now to buy himself more time.

Arthur looked at him with somewhat widened eyes. “Why do you keep dragging Charles into this? Anyhow, I’m gonna tell Charles and Sadie.”

Oh.

“So it’s just Hosea and Dutch you aren’t telling? Who’s being a kid, Arthur?”

“What are you, Grimshaw!?” Arthur looked a bit annoyed, but then his lips stretched into a grin. “You’ll be the one to tell them, how about that? Take the brunt of their disappointment, just like I had to listen to all their lectures when someone left.”

“I ain’t saying nothing to them!” John vehemently objected to the notion, finished his own cigarette and flicked it away. “Or how about I tell them you ran off with your sweetheart, Mr Moron?”

“At least think of your own insult, Marston,” Arthur snickered. “And what’s with you digging at poor Albert when you haven’t even met him?”

“So you ain't denying he’s your sweetheart?”

“What’s that to you, Mister Roberts?” Arthur jabbed him in the chest with a finger as he moved to leave. “I’m hungry, let’s get some breakfa-”

John interrupted Arthur by taking hold of her arm, spinning her around and pulling her into a kiss. She seemed a bit shocked at first, but didn’t push him away. He could taste fresh tobacco on her teeth and lips, slowly as he pushed his tongue into her warm mouth. She was kissing him back now, if tentatively, and so he felt the courage to wrap his arms around her while she reached up to caress his ear with one hand and shoulder blades with the other. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this, John…” Arthur whispered when their mouths separated enough to let them breathe. “You’ve made up with Abigail again, haven’t you? You need to-”

“I know…” He let his fingers glide through her hair without removing his arms from around her frame. “And I love her, I do… It’s just…”

“Just what?” Arthur’s fingers brushed gently along his cheek and jawbone, tracing the scars. “You’re horny again cause she won’t give it to you? Is that it?”

“I don’t know… No!” John protested at the half-harshly spoken question. “I’ll miss you, Arthur, if you leave…”

“I appreciate the sentiment, John, but I can’t stay on account of you missing me.”

He could feel her grow distanced, so tightened his embrace. 

“But you’d stay if Dutch was the one missing you, right?”

He had more anger in his voice than intended and he could feel her tense, which he hadn’t wished to cause either. Before he could come up with an apology, however, she spoke and her answer surprised him.

“Yeah, maybe I wouldn’t want to leave then.” Arthur frowned and slipped out of his arms whose hold had relaxed considerably. “Not in the way you think, though. I just feel he doesn’t need me anymore. Hasn’t been giving me any jobs lately, and I keep finding out about them when they’re done, and I don’t like being left out at all…”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to go on the trolley station job, trust me…” John chuckled and sighed, trying to change the mood by diverting the topic. “Was a real mess.”

“Yeah, heard it was a setup. Never believed Bronte would have a reason to be generous to us in the first place. Not sure why Dutch trusted him...”

They didn’t say anything for a few moments, Arthur absently looking at a flock birds flying down to land on the serene waters, one of whom was unfortunate enough to be instantly captured by an alligator. And John stood staring just as absently at Arthur. Eventually she turned and quirked an eyebrow when her eyes fell to his lower abdomen. 

“Doesn’t take much to get you excited, does it?” She poked his half-hard prick with an index finger, making him squirm. “Youth is a most wondrous thing…” 

He took her retreating hand and placed it back on his crotch, pressing lightly. “You ain’t gonna leave me like this, are you? The guilt is sure to haunt you when in your fancy New York apartment you recall how you didn’t even fulfill your best friend’s last wish...”

He winced as Arthur slapped him suddenly but not too hard, her other hand giving a delicious squeeze to his member. “Is this how _friends_ say goodbye?” She slapped him again with the back of the same hand and on the other cheek. “What is your last wish then exactly, boy?” Before he could open his mouth, she shushed him with a finger. “And think carefully, it’s your _last_ request, after all…”

John couldn’t tell if Arthur was being serious or just kidding him. Knowing Morgan, it could be both… He knew what he wanted, but didn’t know if he should say it, or conceal his wish and pretend that he wanted something else like Dutch and even Arthur did when they were in the mood to tease, which was nearly all the time. Eventually he gave up when no taunting moves came to mind.

“I want to fuck you.”

“Mighty imaginative, Marston…” Arthur stared at him for a second and gave his cheek a pat.

“It’s simple, I know what I want,” John retorted, confident. He’d heard enough of the others’ bullshiting recently to know that in spite of the airs they put on they were just as lost as he was. “No need to make it complicated.”

Arthur appeared to be reflecting for a bit, then moved towards one of the shacks with John in tow. She didn’t go inside though and just checked no one was around before moving towards a wall facing away from the manor house and pulling off her boots and trousers, unbuttoning the lower half of her union suit and sitting on a patch of grass, back resting against the planks, legs held asunder. 

“Come on, my ass is getting wet already,” She called to him after a moment or two.

John remained blinking, watching Arthur in a mixture of disbelief, arousal and frustration. He checked the surroundings himself for good measure before kneeling in the mud, opening his jeans and drawing out his cock which he began stroking as he propped her legs over his thighs and scooted closer. She held him back by a hand on his chest as he leaned in to kiss her. He frowned but didn’t question the decision behind the move, and let his fingers find their way to her entrance and began working on opening her up while his eyes remained fixed on hers. The gaze exchange mirrored the glare battles they engaged in whenever in their younger days they challenged each other to a dare. And yes, the fuck that he was going to get felt more like a dare than a delight at this point, seeing as she seemed to be adamant on making it as ‘simple’ a matter as possible, with no intimacy involved. 

They both hissed when he pushed the head in, Arthur’s hand coming to rest on his shoulder. He stopped advancing until she let the hand drop and opened her eyes again. He saw her bite her lower lip when he finally bottomed out, panting slightly to feel the extreme tightness of her heat. They were closer now, emotionally he didn’t want to move back, but his instincts were in charge at moments like this. He clasped both her thighs in his hands, pushing her wider open as he began moving, head lowered and eyes closed in sheer concentration, hoping against all hope that she would at least moan, or pretend to moan… She did let out a smallest of gasps, when he, getting close, bent forward and lightly bit the side of her neck, inhaling her scent just as his cock expanded and shot its load into the depths of her cunt. He couldn’t tell if she had orgasmed or not, nor did he dare to either ask or try to make her come. Couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes either, so allowed his head to rest on her shoulder, face hiding in the crook of her neck, hands slowly lowering her thighs which he had pushed up earlier and coming to rest on her waist.

“Be a man John, this ain’t worth it.” He flinched to feel her fingers running gently through his hair, the other hand calmly caressing his shaking shoulders. “You have something that’s worth it though. You’ve no idea how I envy you your lot, how I wish I still had…”

When she didn’t continue, he lifted his head and watched her biting her trembling lower lip firmly, looking away. He thought he saw tears in her eyes, but his own vision was blurry and moist so he couldn’t see very well.

“What does being a man mean to you?” He asked with genuine curiosity, raising a hand to tenderly touch the scar on her chin. He still remembered how he’d got it and smiled at the memory.

“Don’t know anymore rightly…” A thin smile sat on Arthur’s lips. “But you know what I mean, Marston, don’t try to weasel your way out of it by waxing all philosophical. And stop rubbing your wet face on my shirt, it’s the only good one I’ve left!” 

“The other night, after the attack on Bronte-” He had scarcely opened his mouth to murmur the words when another voice, uncomfortably close, overtook his in volume. 

“Well, ain’t that the most pathetic fuck I’ve had the unpleasure of jerking off to…” 

They both turned to see Micah, sneering as he leant against a wooden column, pushing his flaccid cock back into his trousers and wiping his hand on a handkerchief. 

John was about to lunge at Bell when Arthur held him back fast, pushed him to the ground and addressed the man in an uncharacteristically calm tone while putting on his trousers and boots: “What do you want, Micah? Imagine you’re here for something more than a peep show?”

“Aww, don’t be like that, Morgan,” Bell stepped forward but backed away when John literally growled at him. “We’re pals now, remember?”

John didn’t like the man’s tone at all and it didn’t help that he hadn’t a clue what he meant by them being ‘pals’... _Fucker_...

“Shit, you’ve been away for so long, _pal_ , that I forgot you even existed,” Arthur got up and walked towards Micah, but then passed him by and headed in the chuckwagon’s direction, followed by the other of course. “Why don’t we catch up over breakfast. Can’t wait to hear the tale of your encounter with the bull gater, heard you nearly…”

John couldn’t hear them anymore and didn’t feel like eating in Micah’s presence, so stayed where he was. It was bad, Bell seeing them like that. Who knows what he would tell Abigail… Maybe after today’s job he would forget, John hoped, though very much doubted it. As a distraction, he wondered if he should go and speak with Hosea as he had promised Abigail, but decided to leave it for after the heist. Moods should be better by then and maybe he could even ask Hosea to convince Arthur not to leave. It wouldn’t count as betraying Morgan’s confidence, after all, when he himself had asked John to tell Dutch and Hosea once he had left. John would be merely tweaking the timing of the revelation...


	23. Wer wollt auf Erden nicht ein Paradies?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Micah’s (first person) POV.
> 
> Warning: Micah-typical racism, sexism, homophobia, assholism… 
> 
> This chapter is pretty experimental and contains fourth-wall breakage. Basically a long _aside_ from Micah, so apologies in advance and thanks for reading this shit! ;)

Howdy, cowpoke! 

*grins*

Bet you didn’t expect this, huh? Bet it was the least thing you expected, in fact, eh? Well, can’t say I care… I’m stuck with you just as you’re stuck with me and, let me tell you, you ain’t the one who’s annoyed by this forced association the most…

Well, maaaybe that wasn’t entirely true and maybe I do enjoy making you a tad uncomfortable, but what did you expect? Seriously, what reason do I have to tell you the truth? So let’s make something clear: I lie. All the time. Get it? Hehehe…

Anyway… I ain’t gonna waste precious time that I could have spent schmoozing the boss on trying to convince you I’m a good person deep deeeeep down and all that jazz. We all know that ain’t true, no way, no how… 

*spits tobacco* 

So, why don’t you relaaax and let Mister Bell take you on a tour of this beautiful paradise called…

*takes a deep breath*

 _Guarma_! Yeah, here’s where we are now, nearly a week after the bank job, which if you ask me went pretty well, if only cause that old man finally croaked, hah! Bastard kept questioning me about Blackwater like it’s my fault we managed to get away with a shit load of money, which he knew the hiding place of and I don’t, by the way... So what if a couple of folk died along the way? We’re fucking outlaws, not nannies… Though I have to admit that I quite agree with Miss Poppins in that: 

*clears throat*

_In every job that must be done_  
_There is an element of fun…_

Then something, something...

*starts singing*

_And every task you undertake_  
_Becomes a piece of cake…_

*stops singing* 

Ahem… And there is more good news! Not only are we rid of one Matthews, we’re also most likely rid of one Marston, probably hanged by now, _and_ one Morgan, hopefully drowned! So can you imagine how happy yours truly is? Go on, try it, take a whiff of Le Bonheur de Bell, cause you’re worth it...

*winks* 

Now if only we weren’t stuck on this infernal island… Did I say paradise earlier? Well, fuck me, cause this ain’t no heaven, or maybe it is and I, being a citizen of hell, am not fit for basking in its glory… The damned heat… Now I ain’t one to complain, compared to them other folks, but it roasts you and leaves you for bugs to feast on… Not sure what Dutch sees in Tahiti, or imagines he’ll be seeing in Tahiti, which is probably the same as here… But me? I prefer the cold, snow and shrinking balls and all. If I ever had a gang of my own, I’d make my hideout up in them mountains, have the best view and the chill air… Oh yeah… 

Just look at us! Look at that thing which is called Williamson, sweating like a pig, and the greaser, well he’s probably used to it… And there is Dutch, sunburnt and dishevelled, will probably have a heart attack if he saw himself in the mirror, but damn he still looks grand… 

*coughs*

Let’s go say hello…

“Hi boss. Can I sit here?”

“Sure, son.”

 _Son_ … Hate it when he calls me that… 

*sits down and sighs* 

“How you doin’ boss?”

“As well as can be. And you, Mr Bell?”

“Fiiine… I say, Dutch, what do you think happened to Morgan?”

Oh, this is gonna be good! Wait for it, cowpoke… He’s gonna pretend he doesn’t care, but just you wait for it…

“I’m sure she is okay. Got herself out of worse situations before.”

There! Did you see that? Thinks I can’t see, but it’s there alright… Had the same look in his eyes when old Matthews kicked the bucket. Thinks he can hide it behind that deep dark frown. It doesn’t last long, mind, and you nearly won’t notice if you’re not paying attention, but I do. I’m always watching him… He fascinates me, the charm is almost blinding, but I won’t let it dazzle me like it does the others… They worship him, like a god. But I know. Deep down he is only a man, with all the weaknesses of one. 

“I don’t know, Dutch, I feel bad about this… Maybe we should have waited for her, or searched the waters a bit more, don’t you think?”

“We did all we could.”

Heh, no we didn’t! And he doesn’t believe it either… I can hear the guilt in his voice. Let’s break him a bit more, shall we? You with me, cowpoke? Not like you have a choice...

“If you say so, boss…” 

“I do say so, Mr Bell.”

Poor man… Couldn’t take anymore. Look at him leave… That back, always so strong, looks a bit hunched now, doesn’t it? But I won’t follow. I’ve injected my poison now and I’ll let it fester for a while, and when he is completely ridden with shame that’s when I’ll move in to console him. Micah, the non-judgemental. Yes, Dutch, I’ll be the only one you’ll need… The only one you’ll beli- 

“Dut… Dutch…”

What!? NO! 

“Dutch…”

FUCK! Gah… Fuck my rotten luck… Guess what, cowpoke… Guess who’s suddenly materialised out of thick humid air? Remember my lovely little list of people I’d thought I’d gotten rid of? Well, we need to remove Morgan from it... 

*spits* 

But no matter, at least the others are dead for sure. And I’ll play nice for now… Gonna go talk to her once things have calmed down a bit. Never liked me, that one, was always suspicious from the very beginning… 

“So, Morgan, just how the hell did you manage to survive?”

Look at her, red as a lobster… 

*sits down next to Arthur*

“Good to see you too, Bell. Found a floating piece of wood and lay down on it.”

“Lucky, huh…”

“More like less unlucky, I’d say, considering the state of things… Does this place have a name?”

“Gua-”

“Never mind, boy… So, Dutch, where the hell are we?”

What the… RUDE! I was just telling you, you asshole… But then what do you expect? Of course she runs to him the first opportunity she gets... Ah, and look at the boss, standing there like a lion guarding his pride… Like it’d make a difference… Really, I’m surrounded by idiots… Yourself excluded, of course! 

*grins* 

You wanna know what I really think about Dutch? I think-

*pant*

*pant*

Sorry for that, cowpoke… 

*pant*

Had to interrupt our little chat cause of various events happening. See, I ain’t a multitasker, can only concentrate on either our (dis)agreeable conversation or saving my hide, and saving my hide naturally takes precedence… Though I’m glad you made it! What happened, you ask? Meh, don’t feel like saying… Just know there were shackles involved and a good deal of physical exertion and this guy called Hercule… Now you go and let your imagination fill in the blanks for you. The dirtier the better, then come tell me the result.

*chuckles* 

So… We are now camping in an outpost in some ruins. They are all sleeping. Even Dutch. Except for me, of course. Why am I panting? Cause I went to take a piss and slipped and had to climb up a damned hill, that’s why! 

By the way, Escuella got shot and is no longer with us. Am I happy? Eh… Not really. I don’t dislike him, you see, he’s smart in a way the others ain’t, and I might be able to use his ‘friendship’ at some point in the future… 

*starts walking* 

Here’s Williamson, snoring… Or should I say Williamdaughter? Heeheehee, I’m funny… 

*walks to the cot* 

And Morgan… Felt good you know, fucking her… And not just cause she’s tight, but the thought of it, fucking Dutch’s whore… Beginning to feel it again, hmmmm, reckon I might be able to get some more while we’re stuck in this god forsaken place… You know what I’d like best? To fuck her just after the boss has, mmmm, what a feeling to have my cock pounding in his fresh spend, coated in it… Ideally, he’d have fucked her in the ass… Then he’d turn to me and say: here, have a go, son… 

*coughs and walks to where Dutch is sleeping*

Look at him… Magnificent, ain’t he? You know, the first time I saw him I thought how better he looks compared the picture on his wanted poster… Superior, and the voice, it’s something, cowpoke, really something, when he talks to you, directly looking into your eyes… I thought of handing him over to the Law a few times, is why I kept the poster, but I burned it… Along with that newspaper cutting about my daddy and I robbing them folk all those years ago… Don’t need it anymore now that the old man ain’t what I want to be… Now this, this is what I want to become, though of course I’d make some changes… No ‘family’ crap in my gang. Colm does it right, but I’d never be able to admire Colm… Doesn’t have the charisma, but Dutch, he knows what he’s doing and he knows how to do it… And he sees it in me too, I know it, that thing that none of them fuckers can ever see...

*walks away and towards the trees*

So I’ll stick around for now… Not cause I’m sentimental or anything, but for the Blackwater money… And to learn… And if all goes well...

*Sits down and leans against a tree*

Ahhh... If all goes well, in the end it’ll be just Dutch and I and the money… We’ll gather the most vicious men and become the most fearsome gang from the Atlantic to the Rocky Mountains and beyond, have hideouts everywhere… 

*Pulls out his cock and starts stroking*

And we’ll catch ourselves lots of women, and we’ll fuck them together, in the ass of course... He’ll go first and I wait there, watching him fuck some blonde whore we’ve grabbed from a stagecoach… Bet she likes it, his rockhard prick ripping her insides apart, bet it’ll feel... Amazing… I- I bet she prefers it dry, to feel all of it, all he has to give, the power, the savagery, the pain… Oh, the vicious grip of his hands on her ass, marking bruises, spanking, one, two, three, four five sixxxx… Cursing, grunting, not paying mind to her begging… Fuck… Shit… Hmph… Hah… Haah… Ahhhhhh… And then we’ll kick them out and it’ll be just the two of us, drinking the best brandy and smoking the best cigars... Hmmm…

*closes eyes and inhales deeply*

Sorry not sorry you had to see that, cowpoke… But you know the saying: what has been seen cannot be unseen, and now you’re stuck with it forever, hah! What? Why you looking at me like that? You think I’m one of them queers, don’t you? Is that what you think!?? Well, tell you what: you’re soooo wrong... The thing I have for Dutch, that’s different… D. I. F. E. R. R. E. N. T. You hear me!? Good, now never mention that again unless you wanna taste of sharkie. DO YOU? Yeah, thought not... 

“You talking to someone?”

WAH! The fuck, that scared me…

*shoves prick back into trousers*

“Williamson, that you?”

“Yeah… Thought I heard you talking to someone…”

“Nah… Must be going mad like your pa...”

Shhhh!

“Oh, fuck you… Why ain’t you sleeping?”

“Cause I’m on guard duty, genius.”

“We have them here too? Didn’t know that…”

No, NO, nobody invited you to sit down...

“You want something, Williamson?”

“Just worried about Javier… You think he’s alive? I bet they’ve tortured him…”

Who gives a fuck…

“Probably.”

“Who do you think ratted on us on the bank job?”

“Marston, obviously.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Him and Abigail, both disappearing suddenly. Must be them. He’s left before, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah… But I don’t think John would have-”

“That’s why it’s called betrayal, it happens when you don’t expect it and involves people you’d expect to be watching your back. Think about it, Bill, they have Jack, so they have the most reason to make a deal. They may even get some bounty money from the government, go settle down somewhere.”

Look at her, stupidity incarnate… See, this is why Dutch keeps her around, you can convince Williamson her tail is her enemy and she’ll believe you... And let me tell you something funny! Remember that rose Dutch gave her? She’s kept it, dried it in one of Hosea’s books and the old man was furious, haha!

“I bet Morgan will eventually betray Dutch too.”

“Why do you say that!?”

“Morgan would have done it when he was a man, now that she’s a woman… You know how women are, yourself excluded, of course!”

She ain’t convinced yet, but she will be after a few more sessions...

“But that’s for the best, Bill.”

“How do you mean?”

“You like Dutch, don’t you?”

“I never said-”

“Don’t need to say it, Bill… Everyone sees it, and unlike them, I don’t judge you. But the thing is, he’ll never see anything in you so long as Morgan is around… I’ve seen Dutch looking at you though, so just think about what could happen when she’s out of the way...”

“I don’t like what you’re suggesting!”

Ah, she left. But see that blush? Weakness. 

*sighs*

This world is rotten, cowpoke… See how ready Bill is to betray her comrade over a sliver of attention from a man who doesn’t care about her beyond how many men she can shoot dead for him? Can’t blame me for not trusting anyone, can you? There ain’t no paradise, not here, not nowhere, just degrees of hell. And I think I’ll…

*yawns*

I’ll…

*snores*

Woah! What happened there? Did I fall asleep? You didn’t do anything weird to me while I slept, did you? If you need some favour from good old Micah, you ask him yourself, okay? And I might just- But, hush, I hear voices…

*crawls towards the voices, crouches and listens*

“Do you think John is okay?”

“I don’t know… But more importantly, are you?”

Ah, the bitch and the boss, on a morning stroll.

“Is any one of us alright?”

“I mean your health… Has anything changed, for example, since you swam ashore?”

“Changed?”

“Never mind…”

Hah, see that? She doesn’t even notice, the way he’s moving closer, little by little.

“And you, Dutch, are _you_ okay? You sound odd…”

“How so?”

Bet he’s thinking of sticking it in again... It does it to you, the tropics and surviving certain death… Makes you horny as hell... Injects new life into a man’s dick… And don’t get too happy now, cowpoke, I ain’t fapping again… You ain’t getting two Micah smut scenes or you’ll be spoiled. 

*waggles eyebrows*

“You know what I mean, Dutch. Been acting like you don’t trust me anymore, not with jobs, nor with properly shooting a goddamn gun. I almost...”

Almost what?

“Almost what?”

“Nothing, forget it.”

“Almost what, Arthur?”

There we go, he’s holding her now and... Wait for it... Kissy time! Pehhh… Never understood what folk like so much about boarding the spit exchange express… But damn, he does it well… Yeah, melt Morgan, melt away… I’d melt too, not that I want to be crushed in some big man’s embrace, but you get my meaning… Yeah, have your fun now, Morgan, cause it’ll be over soon and there’ll be a time when, as the poet says, _all these delights will vanish and deliver ye to woe_... How do I know poetry? I cheated, that’s how.

*sighs*

But what a mood kill… Well, cowpoke, I’m gonna go puke rainbows now and reckon you ain’t one to want to watch that sort of thing, unless you are? In which case you’re mighty unlucky cause I’ve had enough of your company for now. What sort of a tour was this, you ask? Well, maybe it ain’t a tour…

*grins evilly*

Maaaaybe it’s a… robbery! Yeah, cowpoke, hands up! Good, now gimme all your money, and… SCRAM! Bwahahaha… Don’t run so fast now, mind the roots! 

*shouts while waving a hand*

Been fabulous knowing you, so do visit again! And next time bring me some magazines from your time, you know the ones I’d like… And tell Francis I said: Howdy!


	24. In te/In me non splenderà

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur’s POV.
> 
> There be mangoes in Gurama…
> 
> This was supposed to be a fluff chapter... I give up. Major angst ahead!

_Are you gonna strangle me next?_

Why had he said it? Why the hell would he even think of saying something like that? A couple of days had passed since they had managed to successfully rescue Javier, and still Arthur couldn’t make sense of why he had spoken those words. It just sounded so… silly. He could perhaps blame it on not feeling too well since landing on the island. He’d been feeling nauseous and exhausted almost all the time, which was probably from heatstroke or some tropical disease, and not something that would cause strange words to pop out of one’s mouth... He tried to remember what he had felt when saying them. Anger? Yes, definitely. Fear? He would not like to admit it, but yes, that too… And something else, though he wouldn’t even dare delve into those morbid depths at the moment. 

“Comfortable, Arthur?”

“Mhmm…”

“Don’t get up.”

He lay back down, arms crossed behind his head, still a bit tipsy from the half bottle of rum he’d consumed and whose remainder had been propped against a nearby tree for future use. He watched Dutch lower himself to the grassy ground and recline beside him, an eyebrow quirked as he eyed Arthur’s bare chest, reached with a hand and draped his shirt over his breasts. As soon as the hand had withdrawn, however, Arthur threw the shirt fronts open again, eyebrows raised as he half-stared at the man. 

Dutch chuckled and rolled his eyes, and Arthur let his gaze drift back to the moving clouds, visible through broad green leaves covering the azure blue sky. He felt at peace, unexpectedly so, considering how only a moment ago he was plagued by a variety of thoughts about the same person whose presence at his side now sufficed to disperse all said worries, questions, etc… He had almost fallen asleep when he heard a squishy sound and on tilting his head to the right saw Dutch peeling an unfamiliar fruit with a knife. He let his head return to a neutral position again and closed his eyes, smiling. 

“Open up.”

On opening his sleepy eyes, Arthur saw a yellow fruit slice suspended above his mouth on the end of the knife. 

“Ain’t hungry…”

“Here, you haven’t been eating properly.” 

“Don’t feel like it,” He protested, involuntarily licking the sweet drops trickling onto his chin even as he tried to push the unmoving hand away. “Dutch, drop it…”

And he did. Only not the way Arthur had meant. With a flick of a wrist, the bastard dropped the fruit onto his half-open mouth, and it slipped right in, almost making him choke so he had no choice but to swallow. He coughed and glared at the man and moved to get up but was held in place when Dutch abruptly straddled him, smiling as he pushed him down before slicing another piece of fruit and holding it against his lips. They remained sealed in tight defiance, until a gasp was forced out of his mouth when Dutch let go of the fruit and it landed on his sternum with a wet plop. 

“Whoopsie daisy…” 

Dutch grinned, picked the slice and trailed it all over Arthur’s chest, letting it twirl once around a hardening nipple before wolfing it down. His overgrown moustache tickled when he bent to lick the juices off his breast, giving his nipple a little nip before withdrawing. 

“Hmm, yum…”

“What is it even?” Arthur tried to distract himself with the question.

“Don’t know, some local fruit.”

“How do you know it’s not toxic?”

“Didn’t kill Bill.”

“That’s no guarantee…”

Dutch chuckled, cutting another slice. “Say aaah…”

“No, it’s too swee-” 

Arthur’s objection was muffled when another smooth piece was stuck into his mouth. Dutch had probably read his mind, since just as he was about to spit it out, he bent and pressed his mouth against his, pushing the fruit further in with his tongue so that again he had no choice but to chew and swallow, though he may have bitten Dutch’s tongue in the process.

“Vicious little creature,” Dutch leaned back, gaze hard but smile fond as he allowed a sticky hand to begin exploring Arthur’s chest and belly, lingering there a bit, before moving to open his trousers. “I’d give you a good birching if you weren’t…”

“If I weren’t what?” Arthur asked, confused, rebellious, aroused, exhaling a sharp breath to feel a finger slip inside his already moist entrance. 

Dutch drew out the now wet finger and licked it. “So delicious, my boy…” 

His smile was utterly wicked as he cut off a particularly large slice and slipped it between Arthur’s lips, muting his response. He quickly chewed the fruit to pieces, but before he could resume speaking Dutch leaned in again and bit his nipple, tweaking the other between his thumb and index finger leisurely as he smeared more of the yellow nectar all over his torso, throat, hair... There was a strange sort of delight in being stained like this, in reaction to which Arthur lifted a hand and let it stroke the other’s sunburnt neck.

“Dutch…”

“Hmmm?”

“What if…” He sighed when Dutch shifted his oral attention to the other breast. “What if it’s a mango?” Even as he said it, he couldn’t help bursting out in laughter. It must be the rum’s effect. 

Dutch lifted his head and frowned, staring at him for a few seconds before speaking: “Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur.” He bent and kissed him on the lips, smirking as he paused. “You think I don’t know how a mango looks like?”

“Do you?”

“Of course.” Dutch placed the half-eaten fruit on the ground, cast off his own waistcoat and pulled Arthur’s suspenders off. “Mangoes are red.”

“You’ve never seen one,” Arthur quickly undid the buttons of Dutch’s shirt before moving to his trousers.

“I have, in an agricultural book.”

Arthur wasn’t convinced, and it must have shown on his face.

“Do you want to know what mango tastes like?” Dutch asked, looking dead serious while he stroked his already engorged member, shifting to position himself above Arthur’s chest without putting his weight on it, pointing his prick straight at his face. “Here, I’ll show you…”

“I’ll bite it off, Dutch.”

“Go on, I dare you, do it, Arthur.” 

The man’s expression remained devilishly serious as he brushed Arthur’s hair away from his brow, fingers gliding gently through the sticky locks before gripping firmly and twisting them in a fist, tilting his head upwards, pressing the tip of his cock to his pursed lips. Arthur closed his mouth tighter when the taste of pre-cum breached through, swallowing a traitor of a moan that threatened to jeoperdise the resistance from within when Dutch reached behind him with his right hand and slipped it inside his trousers again, palming his sex, teasing his clit with dexterous digits. A little unexpected pinch was all that it took to break apart his resolve, giving Dutch the opportunity to push the head between Arthur’s parted lips and teeth. 

Arthur glared at the man towering above him with narrowed eyes, but his tongue had a will of its own, much too curious not to dance around the head a bit, tasting the flavour that flooded his mouth as the intruder was forced further in. He saw Dutch’s infernal grin widening when in response he slipped in a finger, swiftly followed by another, into his cunt, hissing when Arthur softly pressed his teeth on the expanding flesh, hands kneading Dutch’s thighs as his mouth was further penetrated, undecided as to whether he should shove the man away or not, meanwhile gently sucking on the head, not of his own accord of course. Running his tongue along the sensitive underside, Arthur hummed in delight to spy Dutch’s facial muscles strain in rapture, breathing growing heavier by the second. He was soon panting himself to feel the pressure of the manual ministration trebling in intensity, moans spilling all over the steadily advancing length until it hit the back of his throat. 

“Relax…” Dutch cooed, dark-heartedly, his half-smile almost distracted as he slowly rocked his hips. “He could take it, so can you…” 

Even through tear-filled eyes Arthur could see a pensive shadow eclipsing the other’s countenance, though any speculations he may have had about the cause evaporated when he was prevented from freeing his mouth by turning his head which was held fast in place. He could have used his hands to push the man away, but then Dutch would no doubt prioritise immobilising him over pleasuring him, and just then he found the upward curl of the digits fucking his passage too exquisite a sensation to want to be deprived of it. 

He closed his eyes, pushing the growing ache in his jaw and throat to the very back of his mind as he tried to focus on the lower opening, fingers now digging into Dutch’s thighs, before one hand slid upwards to touch the exposed skin of the other’s flexing abdomen, tugging on the coarse thick hair, ascending farther yet to pull on a nipple, making him buck harder at the unforeseen titillation. To his shame, Arthur’s howl of disappointment was much louder than expected, for the fact that his mouth was now freed, as attentive fingers withdrew from his spasming cunt when Dutch pulled out his cock and proceeded to jerk himself off urgently, thick ropes of creamy cum shooting onto Arthur’s face and specifically mouth before he had a chance to close it. The taste was a peculiar mix of sweet bitterness thanks to the earlier fruity interjection and he had yet to register the texture when the shaft returned to his mouth, pushing the fluids down his throat. 

Arthur coughed and shoved an abstractedly growling Dutch away. “Gimme a warning at least…” He groaned, wiping the cum off his forelocks.

“What’s the fun in that?” Dutch panted and bent to lick the sticky residue off his face and feed it to him in a sloppy kiss. 

Arthur gave him the finger when he wasn’t looking and sighed, still quivering and needy down there but not willing to trade his soul for a favour from the devil. He watched him take a swig of the leftover rum and pick up the discarded fruit, pausing a moment before putting it down again. Unhurriedly, Dutch pulled off Arthur’s trousers, leaving his lower half completely bare, which sort of felt good in the heat. He then picked up the fruit again and peeled the rest of it, cut a slice and fed it to Arthur, who was too lazy to protest anymore. 

Yawning, Arthur closed his eyes and thought he might have a little nap, trying to wipe the taste of cum away from his mouth by sweeping his tongue over his teeth, when he felt his thighs being pushed apart and something pressing into his entrance. At first he got a bit excited - though he wouldn’t show it - on reckoning it might be a finger, but it felt different somehow, softer… Tilting his head, he opened an eye to see an amused Dutch, sitting upright with his back leant against a tree, eating a slice of the yellow fruit, then cutting another and dipping it into his…

“You didn’t just do that!” He tried to scoot away but his ankle was grabbed and he was pulled even closer to the man. “You’re fucking insane, Dutch… Did you hit your head or something?”

“Yes, actually,” The bastard responded, shamelessly repeating the gesture. “After a very eventful trolley ride, but no matter. Want some?”

Arthur shook his head and let his eyes move back to the cloudless skies. “What do you think-” He began but abruptly stopped himself. He was about to ask Dutch what he thought Hosea would have thought of Guarma and the fact of their landing there out of all places, but the briefly formed snicker faded when he recalled the old man was dead. It was still hard to believe. _Dead_. The word sounded odd, had no meaning to it. _Dead_. He still dreamt of him, and in his dreams Hosea was always protesting that he wasn’t really dead and that it was all just a trick, an act. 

“About what?” He felt a damp hand caressing his inner thigh. 

He looked at Dutch again. He seemed to be happy, or at least content, but he could never tell with him. Arthur had seen Dutch hide his true emotions numerous times on a variety of jobs and so he couldn’t assume the man wasn’t affected at all by his long time partner’s… disappearance? Was that the word? _For good_. It would be childish to assume so. _Dead_. At the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to talk about the incident either, as if not talking about it would make it null and void. _Gone_. They would return from Guarma to find Hosea had somehow survived, that John and Charles were alright, and the rest of the gang…

“What are you thinking about?” Dutch crawled towards him and was hovering above him now, leaning on elbows and knees, licking his moustache clean like a well-fed cat.

He lifted a hand and brushed the dark strands behind the man’s ear, but they fell apart again. “Thinking about how you didn’t get me off, old man…” Arthur forced a grin and gave Dutch’s ear a tweak. 

“Oh? Think you deserve it?”

“Maybe not,” Arthur huffed and continued playing with the unkempt hair, making it even messier. “But there ain’t many choices around, guess you’d have to do…” 

He tried to pull Dutch down, but he wouldn’t budge. _Dead. Gone. Removed. Please_... They stared at each other. 

“Stay put,” Dutch got up and took Arthur’s trousers with him as he left the clearing.

Arthur didn’t have to grieve for long. In a few minutes the other man was back, holding something in his hand that he wouldn’t let him see.

“Turn around, face down, ass up.” 

He complied, rolling to rest on his elbows as he pushed his behind up in the air. At least the adamant ants couldn’t get to him like that... He heard Dutch kneeling behind him and in a second his legs were spread apart when a presence settled between them. He gasped to feel an oily liquid trickling onto his backside and down the crack, but his head was pushed back down before he could turn around to see what it was. 

“You’ll not move from this position until I say so, understood?” Dutch barked, slapping his cheek none too gently. “Say ‘yes’ if you do.”

He was spanked again, sharply, when he remained silent and so Arthur murmured a ‘yeah’ followed by a louder ‘yes’ when the gesture was repeated with even more precision and impact. He closed his eyes and bit his lower lip when a finger penetrated his ass, thankfully oiled, losing no time to open him up. Intermittent smacks were gifted to each smarting cheek until and while another digit was added, accompanied by an obscene refrain on how tight he was, how the tightness would not last, how the other would enjoy making that a fact, and how in the meanwhile he would show him what a slut he truly was. He would have laughed, if only because he’d never heard Dutch speak like that, but there was hardly any room for laughter among the throbbing pain and the tears that followed the replacement of the fingers with a thoroughly lubricated cock, and the oh so delicious novelty nestled somewhere behind the dulling ache of the invasion. It belatedly occurred to him that he should perhaps attend to the tingling nub, and when he did, stealthily, oh, oh, everything seemed to change, hmm, and the pain transformed, oh, instantly into pleasure, hnnngh, which unfortunately had the effect of making him moan audibly, ah, attracting the other’s notice.

“Arthur, did I say you could touch yourself?” 

The now delectable movement halted and he could feel his walls pulsing around the stilled length, furiously as he flicked and rubbed his clit, hoping against all odds that he could reach his peak before Dutch could intervene. And so he ignored the question, whining as his hand was slapped away as a consequence, twice, the grip on the nape of his neck tightening viciously.

“Dutch, pl…” He murmured, biting the cushion of his palm at the same time as if there were two persons inside his head engaged in bitter conflict over a very important decision which a third citizen did not want to make.

“What?” Dutch enquired, almost tenderly as he began to drive into him again, settling into a comfortable pace now.

Arthur remained quiet this time, panting, as the three residents were taken hostage by a fourth, strong-willed.

“You will say it later. You may as well say it now.” 

The tone was almost advisory in calmness, contrasting the escalating pace, while the hand clasping his ass slipped to his waist and then his belly, caresses so frustratingly close to the desired spot and yet so far away. He bit his own hand harder and mewled.

“It will save you a great deal of lost pleasure, and regret.”

“Not regret,” Arthur hissed, gasping when Dutch bottomed out in him in a rapid motion, hot abdomen and thighs pressed flush against his ass, wiry strands of hair pricking the silken smooth skin. “Never spared that…”

Dutch leaned closer, humid breath tickling the shell of his ear: “Why not say it if it doesn’t make a difference?” A soft peck was planted on his temple as the clutch on his neck relaxed so that he could tilt his head and look at the man without having anything to say, or refusing to have anything to say, more likely. “Every once in a while you should articulate your needs, Arthur. It’ll hurt less if you do.” 

“Can’t…” 

“I know.”

He heard him chuckle before leaning back and starting to move again, faster now, and he could feel his insides melting in the heat of the friction, the strength of the thrusts pressing him further into the ground. Arthur finally moved a hesitant hand and placed it above Dutch’s, guiding it to the pleasure spot, moving the calloused fingers to and fro, moaning to feel the initially stone-still digits eventually start to move on their own accord. He was being pitied, he knew and hated it, but it mattered less and less when pleasure surpassed guilt once again, when Dutch’s grunts drowned the voices, when the hand clasped around his throat moved to hold his breast tenderly, when the other’s weight was pressed down upon him, and when, and when…

He repeated his name now every time his breath was pounded out of his lungs, a chant, whispered to himself alone, sole member of a secret cult. The fingers of his left hand clenched into the dirt as he felt himself getting close. The threshold was crossed. The other sensed it too and did not make him wait too long on the other side, forgot to be cruel in such moments perhaps. 

Dutch didn’t pull out initially and when he did Arthur winced at the sudden removal. He flopped to the ground and stayed motionless, listening to the other wiping himself and lying down beside him, panting. He wanted to turn his face in his direction, but beyond a gentle flutter of eyelashes and an even softer intake of breath, he was too exhausted to move and so remained lying on his stomach, back turned towards the other.

After a long stretch of silence, he figured perhaps Dutch had fallen asleep, shifted onto all fours and sat up on folded knees as he began to fasten the buttons of his shirt. He blushed to feel cum seeping out of his still twitching hole, but his eyes remained trained on the other who had closed his, forearm resting on brow, chest moving up and down slowly. Dutch didn’t wear the satisfied smile of someone who had just climaxed after a great fuck, but then neither did Arthur.

“Why did you let them take John?”

Enraged eyes flashed open.

“You don’t really believe he ratted on us, do you?”

He had almost spat the words, couldn’t even tell where the anger was coming from, but it certainly seemed to be contagious. 

“Was that a _beautiful act_ too, letting him hold them back so we could escape?” 

With every accusation he could see the frown tensing and something dangerous, hitherto lurking in the back of Dutch’s gaze seemed to approach closer. He couldn’t stop himself, nevertheless, or the words from pouring out. 

“How many does it take, Dutch?” It occurred to him that perhaps he was being unfair, that he was provoking him on purpose. “Sean, Charles, John-”

He closed his eyes when the other man suddenly pounced on him, slamming him against the ground, hands pressing on his shoulders, hot quick breaths less than an inch away from his face. That was when a now familiar wave of nausea hit him, so that the man perched on top of him didn’t. Moved back even, letting him turn around and ready himself for a possible purge that fortunately didn’t come. When he rolled onto his back, Dutch was gone. 

Arthur sighed and closed his eyes.

Perhaps it wasn’t Dutch he was afraid of, rather the fact that he seemed to be slowly going mad, and he didn’t know how to stop it, or if he even wanted to…


	25. Nur eine unerschüttert steh’n

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dutch’s POV.
> 
> Featuring dark Dutch and his supernatural libido...
> 
> Warning: semi-erotic asphixiation.

_Are you gonna strangle me next?_

Why had she said it? He had racked his brain for the past week and yet could find no reason why she would say something like that except for one; and that one reason was the only he wished never to think about, since it had the ability to move him towards an undesired direction, destruction bound. Funny how at the time when she had said it, he had felt so dismal. None of that nonsense now though. Years of practising how to bend others’ emotions, as well as his own, had taught him just how unreliable feelings were, and therefore how dangerous. Either you control your emotions or they control you. Dutch van der Linde certainly did not belong in the second category. As for Arthur, emotions defined her entire being, and the one most pronounced when she asked that strange question was guilt. 

Why would she think she deserved to be dealt with the same way the old woman had been unless she felt guilty? As to why she should feel guilty, there could be numerous reasons. Greed was one. She could be just as desirous of gold as the old woman had been, perhaps like Bell she couldn’t wait to get her claws on the Blackwater money. In which case, he could perhaps compromise a bit. It was human nature after all, and this would be the lesser of two evils, the greater of which had to do with the suspicion that she was the Pinkerton informant. He doubted this, but had to consider the possibility. It would be dangerous not to do so, particularly since out of everyone in his inner circle - left alive - she was the one he would expect the least to be betrayed by, and therefore she was the one he would have to be most careful about. Recovery from a betrayal of this scale would take time, even for him, and an excess of time was not something he had in his arsenal at the moment. Even if she hadn’t done it yet, it was very probable that she could be thinking of doing it later. They had already offered her her freedom for his head and, who knows, maybe now realising she was with child she had decided to find a way to get out. She even nearly admitted to it the other time…

_I almost_...

Dutch took a final drag of his cigarette and tossed the butt into the water, staring at the unstable reflection of the moon on the silent waves. His chest felt heavy, his head ached. Since they had boarded the ship which was to take them to Van Horn, all manner of speculations had been drifting through his mind, and although he himself knew that some of them were nothing but, he couldn’t bring himself to dismiss them entirely. So many gaps were torn into the fabric of what he had understood thus far to be a thorough knowledge of at least his own gang, and the things he did know for certain, such as the death of a dearest friend, were not necessarily pleasant material for reflection. 

Dutch lifted his eyes from the water to the starry skies.

_Where the hell are you, old girl? We were supposed to get out of this together, you fucking quitter_...

A deep sigh left his chest and he chuckled, shaking his head lightly. Perhaps it was for the best the old man wasn’t around anymore. If he had known about how he was dragging an expecting Arthur into various threatening situations - though, in his defence, he had asked Bell and Bill to do rescue the workers for Hercule - he would have had to endure no end of complaints and a premium view of a barrel pointed at his head. He very much doubted he could stop her even if he wanted to. Sometimes he wondered if she jumped in front of bullets on purpose to get rid of the child. He couldn’t exactly blame her for it, even if he rather preferred that it lived... 

Deciding he should check on Arthur, Dutch removed himself from the crate he was sitting on and headed for the cabins. Arthur and Bill were sharing one, but on entering he found only a snoring Williamson. He searched the ship and managed to find Arthur when on entering his own semi-dark cabin he found her sitting on his bed, head bent, seemingly deep in thought. He closed the door and sat on the bed next to her.

For the longest time neither spoke. He was the one who broke the silence eventually.

“Can’t sleep?”

“No…”

“Worried?”

“Yeah…”

“For John?”

Arthur turned to look at him. She looked tired, like she hadn’t been sleeping for a long while.

“Him, and the others. What do you reckon we’re going back to, Dutch?”

“I don’t know, Arthur.”

“Dreamt last night they were all dead…”

“That would be a bit of an exaggeration.”

“Heh, yeah… Nothing can kill Uncle.”

“True.” 

He turned to smile at her, feeling a bit calmer to watch her profile. Before he knew it, his hand was resting on her shoulder, tracing the outline of her spine, descending to linger on the small of her back which he began stroking in circles. She remained still, gaze fixed before her. 

“It’ll be better from now on, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Dutch. You keep saying we’ll go to Tahiti… Are we really?” 

“What would you have me do, Arthur? Lose hope entirely? Give up on the gang? Let everything we’ve worked for go to waste? Surrender to their law?”

“I didn’t say that…”

He didn’t feel anything when she placed a hand on his thigh.

“What are you saying then?”

She stared at him, opened her mouth, paused, closed it again, head lowered, raised again, and he could see her frustration in her eyes and it made him angry.

“Don’t know rightly what I’m saying, Dutch. I guess... I want us to be the way we used to be, but the world has changed, so I reckon that can’t happen and it makes me so angry, with myself, with you…”

“It can be.” He had spoken the words without thinking about them beforehand and couldn’t stop the flow now as he let his hand travel up to the nape of her neck, staying. “We can set them all loose as soon as we hit land. The two of us will get the Blackwater money and move out of this country, to Australia maybe or even Europe. Would you like that, Arthur?” 

He saw it, the tempted glint in dark blue, even if it only lasted for a second. It made him experience a certain lightness of heart that had been absent for a long time, and which he was aware would not stay long either. She remained silent and he knew why, so he didn’t urge her to respond. They both knew what she would say, or would have to say, or thought she would have to say, and he himself wanted her to say because he knew the dream was just that. If he had truly wanted it to happen, he wouldn’t have asked her opinion. The truth was that he couldn’t trust himself to cherish the same dream a year, a month, a week, an hour later.

Dutch leant forward and kissed Arthur, before either had a chance to speak, on her lips, several times. The hand that wasn’t massaging the back of her neck went to rest on her waist, turning her towards himself as he pushed back slowly so that they were now stretched on the bed. He gazed at her lovely face a while, focus drawn to eyes whose sadness had managed to linger since their very first meeting. The boy had pounced on him with the intent to kill. It had been terrifyingly easy to snatch the knife out of his hand, all force and no direction, and immobilise the feral creature. His twenty-something-year-old self had felt awfully arrogant to realise, having spied in the blue eyes the fear behind the rage, that he had him, would tame him and he would follow forever. Twenty years later he was wise enough to understand that it wasn’t the fear that had kept Arthur at his side, but the sorrow nestled behind the fear. 

He kissed her again, wishing he had done so twenty years prior. When he fucked her that night, he was gentle. He took his time peeling the few articles of clothing she had left off her willing body, accepting the tender submission as yet another symptom of shame felt for harbouring thoughts of betrayal and desertion. He planted kiss after kiss on her belly - still hadn’t come up with a name for a boy... And he entered her only when she was begging him to, in her own quiet way, with urgent pull of fingers curled in his hair, his clothes, a timid leg twining around his. All throughout the fucking he never stopped kissing her, on the lips, throat, cheeks, breasts, alternately, driving in unhurriedly to feel all that she had to give: soft, heated, tight, wanting, guilty... 

She came twice before he climaxed, he was proud to note as he spilled his cum inside her, filling her up, allowing his throbbing cock to remain inside as panting slowly he wrapped first one and then both hands around her throat, squeezing.

“Do you _want_ me to strangle you?”

Her eyes were shut, lips half-parted, hands stroking his arms softly when he increased the pressure. 

“Do you want me to kill you?”

He felt her tightening around him, so, so deliciously, and felt himself getting hard again as he gently began thrusting. 

“Would you die for me, Arthur?”

She gasped, or tried to, throwing her head farther backwards as the pressure grew still. Her fingers were now digging into his muscles.

“Couldn’t John have wanted the same?”

Breathing heavily, he felt himself almost losing control as he sped up, hot friction almost painful on his shaft, threatening to send him over the edge as much as her muffled little moans did.

“Couldn’t he have sacrificed himself willingly?”

How on earth could someone orgasm while being choked, he couldn’t fathom, and didn’t care as the rippling tightness triggered his own peak. Growling in abandon, hips snapping forward in vicious determination, he pumped his seed into her, this time it overflowed and seeped out of her spasming cunt and onto the blanket. He hadn’t relaxed the grip of his hands, and when he looked at her he could see that she was hardly breathing anymore. Should he end it now?

There was a knock on the door. Immediately Dutch let go of Arthur. 

“Dutch?”

Javier. 

He paused for a moment, then: “I’ll meet you on the stern.”

“Okay.”

He heard footsteps limping away and exhaled, turning his gaze to Arthur, surprised to see her looking at him, an unreadable expression in her eyes. He was about to reach a hand towards her, but stopped himself and instead got up from the bed, began tidying his clothes, raking his fingers through his hair, eyes still fixed on her, frowning.

“Sleep here tonight.”

It wasn’t an offer and to make that clear he locked the door behind him once he’d stepped out of the cabin. 

The night breeze felt fresh on his face and he took a deep breath, organising his thoughts so that when he joined Escuella he had a satisfied smile at the corner of his lips. He accepted a cigarette from the young man and leaned against the railing next to him. 

“What ails you, Mr Escuella?”

“We’ll get there in a day or so, right?”

Dutch nodded.

“Just wanted to ask what’s the plan when we get there?”

“How is your leg?” Dutch asked, giving himself time to think of a plan. He had been too preoccupied thinking about all sorts of things to actually think of a concrete plan. 

Javier raised an eyebrow. “Better, thanks. Can’t wait to get rid of this though.” He grinned and waved the makeshift crotch he’d been using.

My, the boy had a charming smile. 

“The plan is,” Dutch hummed, gaze still running up and down the young man’s frame. “Once we arrive at the port, we will separate and start searching for the rest. We will reunite and from there decide how to proceed.” 

“Makes sense.” Javier nodded, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Guess we’ll need more money to-”

“Of course we need to be prepared for the fact that the person who sold us to the Pinkertons may still be among us.”

“Are you sure someone betrayed us?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Do you suspect anyone?”

“I know it wasn’t you, or Williamson, or Bell.” He knew no such thing, of course, but if they were traitors he had even more reason to want to make them feel safe for the time being. “My guess is either Duffy spoke to the O’Driscolls and they did it, which is unlikely since he didn’t know the details of the bank job. Or Marston-”

“John!?” Javier interrupted him. “You can’t be-”

“I can and I do.” His gaze softened to see the boy’s doubtful regard. “You are probably aware that this is not what I want, far from it. It breaks my heart to think it may have been John.” It wasn’t a lie. He was not the sort of person who would shed tears over a broken heart, but he didn’t remain unaffected, especially when someone like John was involved, whom he saw as his protégé. “However, as the leader of this gang, and yes we are still a gang, I need to be careful and consider all possibilities.”

Javier thought for a moment but eventually appeared to be agreeing.

“If that is the case,” Dutch began, but it occurred to him belatedly that he wasn’t sure what he should say. If Marston had sold them, he would have collected Abigail and Jack by now and disappeared to god knows where. He shouldn’t expect to be seeing him again, and if he did… How odd. Usually thoughts of betrayal filled him with fury, but just then imagining an unlikely reunion with a traitor Marston he couldn’t bring himself to feel enraged. John, his boy...

“We are with you, Dutch. No matter what you decide.”

He tilted his head towards Escuella, whose concerned gaze made him straighten up a bit, regain his composure.

“I know,” He smiled at the young man, not exactly in gratitude, but let him think that. “If worse comes to worst, we need to be prepared to set some of the others loose as well, the women maybe, Uncle, Swanson…”

“That wouldn’t be very kind, Dutch…”

He eyed the young man for a moment. He wasn’t stupid, so he decided to tell him the truth, or a version of it at least: “I’m not a kind man, Mr Escuella. Neither are you. We are outlaws, rebels if you will, pitted against a world that wants nothing better than to see us hanged for not acting like the majority of the population. We can’t afford to be kind, and we don’t need to either. Kindness is for those who cannot afford to be cruel.” He let his gaze remain focused on Javier, taking in every nuance of expression. “Don’t you agree?”

“I guess…” He began tentatively. “I do, but…” 

The boy’s hesitation made him look rather handsome. Dutch placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing encouragingly. “But?”

“There is no beauty in that. Rebellion is a beautiful thing, it brings hope. If it involves cruelty it’s only so that it won’t be necessary in the better world to come. At least that’s how I see it.”

Beautiful indeed, Dutch thought as he observed the young man’s pensive frown. “There can be beauty in cruelty, son.” He stepped closer, let his hand shift upwards so that his thumb could gently stroke the young man’s throat. “If you see it as destructive act that inevitably leads to the creation of new things, uncomfortable yes, painful maybe, but certainly not ugly…” He leaned in and bit the side of Javier’s neck, deliberately but firmly enough to break skin, making him gasp. Hmm, he smelled good, even after a long sojourn in Guarma. 

“Dutch, I rather…”

He paused, releasing the delectable skin which he was kissing and nipping now to withdraw and look at the boy. 

“Rather we didn’t,” Javier added, breath quickening as Dutch pressed against him, pushing him further against the boat’s railing. The young man’s hands remained on his chest, ever so slightly pushing back. “Not that I don’t want to, but this won’t do either of us any good.”

It was with a great deal of reluctance that Dutch pulled away, but not before allowing himself a thorough taste of that clever mouth, gaining at least a bit of gratification to feel the boy’s bulge rubbing against his thigh as he moaned around his tongue. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” He waved Escuella away when he observed him still standing there even after Dutch had leaned his elbows on the railing, gaze fixed absently on the black sea.

The boy lingered a bit more, as if he had something to say, but left eventually. He would have him. Maybe not immediately, but soon enough. Now that John could not to be relied upon, he wouldn’t want to deprive himself of the newfound and indeed exquisite pleasure a man’s body could offer. Besides, it irked him somewhat to think he could only feel that pleasure with John, in which case his loss would be doubly felt. He would have to prove himself otherwise, and who better than Javier to assist him with that...

“He’s playing hard to get, aint’ he?”

“Mr Bell, you’re everywhere, aren’t you?” He smirked at the sauntering figure that was leaving the shadows to join him. “I should tie a bell around your neck.” 

“You watch me, I watch you. It’s only fair, Dutch.”

“And since when are we fair men, Micah?” He frowned, no longer smiling as he issued a warning: “You better not forget your station.”

“Never, boss.”

Dutch eyed the man for a moment, as if considering something, but then decided against it.

“Have you ever fucked a man, son?”

Micah took his time replying. “Ah, maybe? Why you asking, boss?”

“Have you or haven’t you?”

“No, don’t think so…”

“Well, Mr Bell,” He patted his shoulder as he fixed to leave. “You should give it a try. Gives a man a new perspective.”

Dutch smiled at a silently brooding Micah, shrugged and left for his cabin.


	26. Cet asile aimable et tranquille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hosea’s POV.
> 
> Or a wholesome chapter in a sea of ****.

Heaven suited Hosea. His health had improved drastically - well, he was young again - there was great coffee, a reliable newspaper delivery service, and an unending supply of mystery novels and mystery ‘series’ that he could watch in this futuristic contraption called a ‘television’. He had become particularly fond of a series about this dapper detective fellow called Hercule Poirot and must have seen about twenty-one episodes consecutively - without getting tired, of course - when Bessie interrupted him to ask if he would like to join her for a game of dominoes on the deck at the back of their seafront house situated on a secluded beach in Celestial California. 

“Madeleines, darling?”

“Thanks, my dear.”

He accepted the small plate on which two madeleines were neatly placed and a cup of darjeeling tea, sighing in contentment to watch his beautiful wife slide her first piece forward. He had missed her so much, but since their reunion it felt as if they had never parted, which didn’t necessarily mean he missed her any less, rather added a bit of volume to a tranquil sort of affection devoid of any tempestuous wavelengths. 

“I was thinking,” Bessie began, smiling at him sweetly. “Perhaps we should invite Jenny and Lenny over for dinner one of these evenings.”

“Now that’s an idea!” Hosea responded, all smiles. “We should invite Kieran as well, I don’t think he’s made any friends yet beyond talking horses…”

“Well, why not make it a big party and invite the Callander boys and Mr MacGuire too? We could even organise one of those amateur theatricals you like so much.”

“Not with Sean please, the boy drives me insane… Besides they need visas.”

“Might not be so hard if we send them an invitation, it worked well last time.”

“And endure Heaven’s bureaucracy? No, darling, I’m not going through that anymore.”

“Oh, come on! It’ll be fun. I quite like Sean, anyhow, reminds me of Arthur when he was a young lad.” 

“Hah, don’t think Arthur would appreciate the comparison! But okay, if it makes you happy, have it your way. You fill out Sean’s application, I’ll do Mac’s and Davey’s.”

They resumed playing, mood calm, as usual, listening to the serene sound of the waves and enjoying the view of the never-setting sunset while petting Dutch and Arthur and John, Bessie’s three playful kippies - a mixture of kittens and puppies, since she couldn’t decide which she liked best, though Hosea suspected Arthur was more of a putten...

“You have a telegram, sir.”

They both turned their heads to look at the angel hovering above them, holding a piece of paper between its index and middle fingers. Hosea flicked a wrist and it flew straight into his hand. He smiled at the angel in gratitude, but it just glared at him before flapping its wings and leaving. They still hadn’t forgiven him apparently for conning his way into Heaven. Well, there was no way he could possibly wait that long while they reviewed his case... Fortunately for him, the rules were such that once you got in, you couldn’t be kicked out, so Hosea just continued smiling in response to the angel’s indignation and sipped some tea, before proceeding to read the telegram. 

_Where the [place-that-shall-not-be-named] are you, old [man]? We were supposed to get out of this together, you [unthoughtful] quitter_...

He didn’t have to read the signature to realise who it was from. With a sigh he handed it to Bessie, who hid her giggle behind her lace-gloved hand and placed the paper on the table. This was not the first time he had received a telegram from Earth. Whenever someone addressed him directly, he would receive one such note, a service of which he could opt out, but didn’t quite have the heart to do so, at least not when there were still people he recognised left alive. At the same time, he found the editing shenanigans of Heaven’s Ministry of Speech Refinement a mild source of amusement…

“Dutch?”

“Yes…”

“You haven’t used your monthly visit yet.”

Hosea sighed, not sure he was ready to return to the land of living. The traumatic bank heist experience was still fresh on his mind and he wasn’t one for that level of excitement anymore. It was just so nice here on Heaven, he could stay like this forever, even if sometimes it occurred to him that perhaps this Bessie was not the real Bessie, unless he was very fortunate in that she had wanted the very same definition of perfection. He smiled at her fondly, squeezing her hand back.

“Guess I’ll have to go and see what the boys are up to…” 

It wouldn’t be anything innocent, he was sure of that, but what he wasn’t expecting to happen upon just as he had landed on a ship - why a ship? - was the sight of his longtime comrade almost ******* Escuella over the railing.

 _For ****’s sake_ … 

The palm that landed on his face remained there for a good few seconds, reluctant as he was to remove it and see what went on behind the protection of his fingers. At the same time, he suddenly felt very confused since the scene had reminded him of a similar situation, many years ago, involving himself, somehow, but the recollection was very vague and didn’t make sense at all since the sensory memories associated with it seemed to have all gone wrong: images of green pastures, lyre music, taste of madeleines and orange juice, myrrh fragrance, and a ticklish touch of feather on his upper lip… He figured it must have something to do with the agreement he had signed on entering the gates. He had only skimmed through the fine print but recalled there being a paragraph about ‘indecent memory replacement’, with the definition of ‘indecent’ taken from the edition of religion one adhered to contemporaneous to the date of one’s death. He would have to check if there were any rights to appeal.

Thankfully, the young man seemed to have enough sense to slip away, but then that ****** Bell appeared and Hosea decided perhaps he should check up on the others first and leave Dutch for last.

Next stop was Shady Belle. A few days must have passed, since he found Arthur there, apparently looking for something among the scattered belongings left behind by the gang. He wished he could warn Arthur about the three Pinkertons approaching the house, but figured he should be able to take care of such few numbers. And so was the case. Hosea read the letter left by Mrs Adler alongside Arthur, without the usual anxiety he would have felt had he not been dead. They were fine, by the look of it, or as fine as can be. Though the same couldn’t be said of Arthur, who looked thinner and a bit worse for wear. He tried to place a hand on his shoulder, but it passed right through. 

Hosea sighed and followed Arthur into his room upstairs, observing as he searched for his belongings and not observing when he changed his tattered clothes into something more protective against the elements. He seemed to be looking for a few more things which he couldn’t find and so kicked a few other things over in frustration. Arthur then spent the next half an hour whistling in the grounds at various points and appeared to have become both concerned and angry not to have found his treasured mare. Hosea expected him to mount the paint horse he must have nicked from somewhere and head to the swamps, when to his surprise Arthur returned to the manor and went straight to Hosea’s former room. He looked through Hosea’s discarded belongings and found his scarf, inhaled its scent and wrapped it around his neck. He then went up to the room where they used to keep the money box, which was of course gone. But the phonograph was there, and Hosea had a feeling if Miss Grimshaw had still been with them that would have been taken too.

Arthur put on some music and went to the adjoining room, looking through Dutch’s belongings now. His attention was grabbed by a silver pocket watch which he pocketed for himself presumably, judging by the mischievous grin blooming on his face. Next he found a cigar which he lit and began smoking as he returned to the smaller room and lounged on the sofa, hand absently stroking his belly until he suddenly seemed to realise what he was doing and stopped, letting the hand fall beside him, knuckles resting against the floorboards. The cigar still suspended between the fingers of the other hand, now draped over the back of the sofa, Arthur closed his eyes and gradually fell asleep. 

Hosea sighed and eyed Arthur for a while. He was aware of his condition, of course, and even knew the *** of the child, courtesy of certain celestial perks he had managed to - perhaps undeservedly - acquire for himself, which gave him access to a tiny bit of knowledge. The first thing he had looked up on gaining access to the archives was the identity of the father, and he was relieved to discover that while the man in question was not the best in the paternal department it could have been much worse. 

He bent and whispered the name Bessie and him had thought of into a reposing ear and withdrew, a smile on his face, glad that at least there was no immediate danger threatening Arthur, unlike John, thinking of whom Hosea was immediately transported to what looked like a prison cell. 

If Hosea had been left somewhat dazed by witnessing the scene on the ship, the prison encounter left him quite thunderstruck. He didn’t even wait to see if John was the one doing the ******* or the one being ******. 

He blamed it all on Dutch. John and Arthur were too pure for this ****, at least they had been when he left them...

Again some earth-days had passed when he arrived at his next destination; an eerie looking cave reverberating with the sound of metal hitting the earth. On turning a corner, Hosea saw Dutch leaning on a shovel the blade of which was lodged into the dirt beneath his feet. 

Hosea stood in front of a brooding Dutch and stared at him. He didn’t look too well either, reminded him of when they’d spent a sleepless fortnight some fifteen years ago chasing after a federal gold which appeared to have never existed. He wished he could talk to him - of course, he did, that’s all what the dead wanted and could not do during their visits. And yet, if while living the man had hardly listened to what he had to say, what were the chances he would listen to his ghost? 

Dutch covered the disturbed ground with a barrel, picked up the lantern and walked, presumably towards the entrance, through the winding stony corridors whose labyrinthine twists made Hosea wonder for a moment whether he had stepped into the man’s head. That sort of thing didn’t happen though, he had come to learn soon after his earthly expiry. Once the initial shock was over, he had become terribly excited to think all manner of things were possible, only to realise they weren’t, like a newborn babe as he toddled his way through learning the rules of his new existence. 

Indeed, the excitement of the first weeks or so over - or at least that’s how long he thought it had lasted, seeing as time didn’t quite work in Heaven as it did on Earth - he had come to think sometimes if he missed the old life with the gang, hardships and all. And if lack of adventurous opportunities in Heaven had affected him in such a manner, he couldn’t help but wonder how someone like Dutch could ever come to tolerate a place like that. Knowing Dutch, he’d probably make a **** out of Heaven for himself if he ever got there… Especially given how keen he seemed to be to get himself involved in all sorts of _amorous_ \- for want of a more refined word - entanglements. 

Hosea rolled his eyes to see Dutch cornering Miss Gaskill, who seemed to have entered the cave looking for Cain. The poor girl had no chance. He had seen Dutch go berserk like this before, grabbing at whomever wherever, and it often happened when things weren’t going his way, when he felt out of control. Tried it on [Bessie] even on one of the rare occasions when he was thoroughly drunk, shortly after Annabelle’s demise, either pretending or genuinely not recalling he’d done so the morning after - though he did apologise. 

And, as it happens, at that very moment Arthur had to come into the cave as well, see them, and leave immediately, followed by Mary-Beth who had used the opportunity to rush out. 

He slapped Dutch, if only to make himself feel better, since nothing happened. The man just looked mildly discomfited and sneezed. Exhaling the deepest of sighs, Hosea was about to head to the opening of the cave, assuming it to be the other man’s destination as well, when he realised he was mistaken. Dutch stood there thinking for a while, then returned to the dark depths, dug out the box he had buried. He took out a wad of cash, counted it, counted the rest of the money again and buried the box, covering it with two crates this time. Still, he wouldn’t leave the cave, sat on a rock instead and was lost in contemplation. 

He was beginning to get worried now. Dutch always liked money, but he had never seen him like this, obsessed. Once upon a time he used to be a generous man, loving to give money away as much as he liked to earn it through any unconventional means. And now, this Dutch, he looked like he needed help, more than before. It broke Hosea’s heart to see he could not provide it anymore. He even felt a bit angry at Arthur and John for not noticing, but then they were young and had their own problems so he couldn’t really reproach them. And there was the fact that Dutch wasn’t the sort of person who would readily accept help. 

Just then Hosea observed Cain sitting in a corner staring at him, wagging his tail. He turned and looked behind him, there was no one there, so the dog must really be able to see him, he surmised. A thought occurred to Hosea and he went towards the dog, petted its head and ears without really feeling them, which made him wag his tail even more enthusiastically. With a bit of coaxing he was able to guide the dog towards Dutch and have him lift a paw and put it on the man’s knee. 

At first, Dutch was taken aback, so profoundly preoccupied he was apparently that he hadn’t even noticed the dog’s presence. He smiled and stroked the dog’s ears, gently took his paw and put it back on the ground. His reaction was a bit different, however, when moments later he saw Cain approach him, after a short absence, with Hosea’s old scarf in his mouth, dropping it on his left boot. He bent and picked it up, let the worn fabric wriggle between his fingertips and tilted his head to look about him, an eyebrow raised, gaze a little bewildered, brow furrowed, until he shook his head eventually, chuckled and sighed, caressed the dog’s round head and tied the scarf around his neck. 

_******** ******_...

Hosea sighed and smiled as he watched Dutch strolling out of the cave. He didn’t know how much visiting time he had left, but he felt a bit reluctant to linger any longer. It didn’t seem like there would be a happy ending coming their way, but at least they had tried, and if he were given ten more lives, he reckoned he would do exactly the same - well, almost - if it meant he got to meet the same people and have the same experiences. 

“That’s easy to say when you’re in Heaven,” Bessie reminded him later when he repeated the same sentiment to her over a cup of great coffee and madeleines. 

“Quite so, my dear, quite so...” Hosea responded, and a moment later had forgotten all about the terrestrial visit as watching the never-setting sunset he played dominoes with the lovely woman seated in front of him, listening to the sound of the wind and the waves replicating the tune of his favourite series.


	27. Vedrò con mio diletto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur’s POV.
> 
> A visit to the doctor and another dress-up session...
> 
> Warning: contains possibly triggering discussions about abortion.

“When was the last time you bled?” 

“Hmm, about a week or so ago? Bullet wound, just a scratch on the arm, bled like hell though...”

“I mean your courses. When was the last time?”

“Ah…” _Never?_ “Don’t recall…”

He lowered his eyes when the doctor looked at him like he wasn’t in his right mind.

“Please lie down on the bed. I’m going to examine you, if you don’t mind?”

Arthur shook his head in the negative and lay on the bed, casting curious glances at the man who pulled his shirt out of his trousers and began pressing his fingertips on his lower abdomen. He was then informed that a closer inspection was needed, and having confirmed that he had no objections to that, he took off his trousers as instructed and spread his knees wide, wincing at the intrusion and again at the removal. The doctor lifted his palm from his belly and moved to clean his hands while Arthur put on his clothes.

“You are most likely pregnant, madam. I’d say about ten to twelve weeks.”

Arthur stared at the man for a while, then nodded and sank back into the chair situated in front of the doctor’s own. He barely registered the voice explaining how he was underweight for his condition and should nourish his body, keep it hydrated, and so on. Not to engage in any strenuous activities, take a lot of rest and-

“How sure are you?”

“The signs are all there. You fainted on the street, correct? Experience nausea and fatigue, haven’t bled for a long while and your womb has increased in size. I suspect this is your first child?”

“No- yes, I suppose...” Arthur responded, biting his lower lip as he tried to calculate who the father could be.

The doctor’s expression was rather severe, but nothing compared to how he looked when Arthur mouthed his next question.

“Can you get rid of it?”

“We don’t do that sort of thing here.”

“Listen, doc, I don’t know-”

The doctor stood up and held the door open, not even looking at Arthur when he asked him to leave immediately. 

He knew better than to ask twice. 

As soon as he had stepped out of the doctor’s office, he doubled over some bucket in a corner where a cleaning woman was washing the floor and vomited, holding onto the edges for dear life. The woman tried to comfort him but he pushed her away, rather harshly, and rushed out of the clinic, almost getting hit by a passing carriage. He was still somewhat dazed when he found his way into a small courtyard and slipped onto the ground, back plastered against a wall, hands pressing to the cobblestoned ground whose firm steadiness was about the only thing he believed in at that moment, head turned upwards as he gazed at nothing.

He had known it all along, of course, and yet for some reason had imagined that ignoring the fact would make it go away. He couldn’t possibly... Not now... When they still had to save John from hanging, escape the law and the Pinkertons, somehow acquire more money, get out of that damned cave... And to think in the midst of all this he would have to worry about bringing someone else into the miserable mess they had gotten themselves into… Well, on the bright side, chances were they would all be dead before this was over and the tiny thing inside him would never see the light of day… 

Scarcely had he found a measure of peace in the uncertainty of their future circumstances, when a memory, assumed to have been forgotten long ago, came sailing back with the apparent purpose of pushing him down into the depths he had only a moment ago managed to resurface from: His father, drunk as usual, telling him how, ‘pretty’ as he was, it would have been better if he had been born a girl. _Least we could put you to some use then_ … It was all said it jest, only about three times, always when the man was tipsy. The words themselves had never bothered him as much as the harrowing notion now did that maybe this entire trouble he had thrown himself into had something to do- 

“Morgan, is that you?”

He tilted his head and looked at the approaching man whom he didn’t recognise at first, wrapped as he was in a long trench coat, head covered in a large beret, a scarf wound around the neck...

“Charles? Thought you were lying low for a while.”

“But I am lying low, _mon ami_. Haven’t slept with neither man nor woman for five full days. A true feat!” The man offered him a hand and pulled him up to his feet. “Turns out celibacy can be conducive to creativity. Come, I must show you my new work.”

Arthur let the man lead him into his apartment/studio, still feeling a bit numb as he watched painting after painting without uttering anything beyond an occasional ‘hmmm’, until finally Châtenay seemed to have realised something wasn’t quite right.

“My friend, you don’t look too well.” The artist looked concerned. “Is everything alright?”

“Not really… I’m pregnant.”

“ _Merde_...” He offered him a seat on a chair he had just cleared from artistic clutter. “Or is it ‘congratulations’? Sorry, I’m shit with these things.”

Arthur took the seat gratefully but said nothing while the man observed him.

“Looks like you don’t want it?”

He shook his head in the negative before adding quickly: “I don’t know! I don’t… dislike it, I guess, it’s just a bad time.” He chuckled a little at how absurd even talking about it seemed.

Châtenay began making some tea or coffee while speaking in an earnest tone: “I could ask some friends if they know someone who can help you with that.”

“I’m not sure that’s what I want either…” Arthur spoke, confused, considering he had asked the doctor to provide him with the same manner of assistance only an hour ago. 

“Why not? You say it’s not a good time. You could always have another later on when you’re ready, if you’re ever ready, _non_?”

Arthur sighed, again not knowing what to say. He accepted the cup of tea which was offered him with a half-smile and put the cup on the floor next to the foot of the chair. Charles dragged a stool and sat in front of him, gazing at him with kind eyes. 

“ _Alors_ , let’s help you find out what you want maybe, eh? So, let’s count the reasons why you would want to have it and reasons for not having it. Starting with the reasons against it: one, it’s a bad time, two…” He waved a hand, motioning for him to carry on.

“Two, the world is a rotten place,” Arthur spoke, almost mechanically. “Three, I have no money to raise a child with. Four, I’d make a terrible father.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know, trust me.”

“And the reasons for having it? Are there any?”

Arthur paused for a second, then said without thinking: “I’ve lost too much already.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “So it would be a loss?”

“Feels like that, I reckon...”

“Well, if I were you, I would go with my feelings. But then you know me, I’m a whole ass! Not the best decision maker by a kilometre.”

Arthur smiled and sighed, gaze drifting about the room as if he was seeing it for the first time. In a way, he was. His eyes abruptly stopped on what looked like an arrangement for either a still life or as background for a portrait. He got up, walked to the arrangement and picked up a large round yellow-red fruit and held it up, turning to Charles.

“What’s this thing called?”

“That’s a mango, _cheri_.” Came the explanation. “Imported from Cuba. They’re pretty precious, was given to me as a gift by a... patroness, let’s say.”

“Mango, huh?” 

Arthur grinned, took out his knife and cut two vertical lines into the fruit, peeled the skin off the wedge and ate the slice. He threw the remainder to Châtenay, who caught it with a questioning expression. He returned to the chair but didn’t sit down. Instead, picked up the now lukewarm tea and drank it all in one go. 

“You know, if you’re looking for a better disguise, you should go for a woman.”

“A woman?”

“Yeah, shave off the beard, dress up all nicely,” Arthur retrieved his hat from the floor and walked towards the door. “You’d be surprised how it changes your perspective.” He smirked, then added in a more sober tone: “I’m meeting a friend. Thanks for the tea and... the rest.”

He wondered at first if he should give Sadie the news and decided against it, not wanting her to fuss or make any changes in the rescue plan, which turned out to be quite crazy and brilliant. Only Mrs Adler could have come up with the idea of using a balloon.

“Why are we here again?” Arthur asked, eyeing the shabby room at the back of the tavern. “And why do you have that strange look in your eyes?” It reminded him of the time they had been alone in a fitting room.

Sadie pursed her lips, then spoke: “We need to disguise you as a man.” And before Arthur could open his mouth, she resumed: “The balloon ‘pilot’ doesn’t like women on his vessel, said something about vapors… Anyway, one of us needs to pretend to be a man, and he’s already met me, so…”

“I won’t have any problems with the pretending part, but, knowing you, I fear what the physical transformation entails.”

He observed the room closely to see if anything strange or possibly tortuously tight might be visible.

“Won’t be worse than last time, promise!” Sadie grinned and showed Arthur a black moustache she had taken out of a bag, along with a long strip of plain white cotton cloth which looked a tad more ominous than the other article. “We need to bind your chest, so off with them clothes.” 

He had known there would be something unpleasant involved… Well, at least it wasn’t a corsette. Anything but a corsette... “Fine,” He shrugged at length. 

Wanting this to be over quickly, Arthur took off his suspenders and shirt and let the union suit slip off his shoulders, holding his arms up while Sadie wrapped the cloth around his chest, pressing his breasts flat to his body. It felt a bit cramped but not too uncomfortable. Once they were done, he pulled on the union suit and suspenders, not yet the shirt. 

“Hah!” He stood looking at himself sideways in the mirror. “Sort of look like when I’d just joined the two of them. Some lean and mean lad...” 

Sadie stood behind him, speaking in a low mischievous voice: “Don’t you worry, son, we’ll make a man out of you yet.” He spied in the mirror that she had donned the moustache and drawn a beauty mark on her left cheek.

“He didn’t have a moustache back then!” Arthur smirked, turning to face Sadie.

She tutted and took his chin in two fingers, holding his head still as she gazed into his eyes. “How dare you, son... I always had a moustache. I was born with a moustache.”

She suddenly leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, lingeringly. Arthur was still a bit dazed when he heard the softly spoken question. 

“Did he ever do it? Kiss you, I mean.”

“No…”

“Did you want him to?” 

She was caressing his hair now with one hand, the other leaving his chin to rest on his waist.

“I… don’t recall.”

“Arthur...” Her fingers began stroking his waist as she kissed his cheek, and he felt his face growing hot. “You remember I said I wasn’t ready?”

He nodded, the heat now spreading to his belly and lower abdomen, and allowed his hand to gently move to clasp her waist.

“I’d like to try something,” Sadie continued. “Jake is still my all and I don’t want a romance of any sort, but I miss this.” She licked his ear playfully. “Don’t think I can do it in the usual way, but it might help if we pretend.”

Arthur lifted both eyebrows. “Pretend?”

“I’ll pretend that I’m Dutch, and you’re, well, your younger innocent self,” She explained, eyes sparkling roguishly. “We’ve just met, son, and I’m going to seduce you.”

“Weren’t so innocent back then, Sadie…” He tilted his head to the right a little, giving her access to the sunburnt skin.

“Dutch, call me Dutch,” She demanded, trailing small kisses on his neck. 

He smiled, bashfully almost, remembering how the man in question had himself said the exact same words, well almost, once they got to the talking stage after their first ever fight.

_Dutch van der Linde. Call me Dutch_... 

She pulled him closer, at the same time pushing them both back towards the bed. “And you, boy, what’s your name?”

_Arthur…_

“None of your business what my name is.” He kissed her briefly, teasingly, on her plush lips.

_Arthur, hmm…_ Like he was tasting his name, savouring the syllables. _You got a last name, Arthur?_

“Ho! Cheeky boy, ain’t you?” She shoved him onto the bed, climbed on top of him and spared no time licking and nipping his throat, jaw, ear. “You want daddy to spank you?”

Arthur burst out laughing while opening the front of Sadie’s shirt. “Daddy!?”

“You don’t call him that, huh?”

_Will you join me- us, Arthur?_

“No...” 

_Sure…_

“No matter, son,” She was now unwrapping the cloth to free his breasts. “Soon you won’t have any use for words anyway…”

Immediately as the bind was undone, she crushed her mouth on his and he let go of all restraint as he kissed her back, pushing by instinct until they flipped over with him on top. She said she didn’t fancy that, so he withdrew onto his back again and began taking off his trousers while she did the same. Union suits followed, and as soon as they were both naked, Sadie rolled on top of him, her warm breasts resting on his, peaked nipples touching, oh so wonderfully electrifying, and he couldn’t help but allow his hands to slide from her waist and her hip to cup the delicious weights, gently palming them, while she rubbed her thigh on his sex, her own gliding along his thigh, now wet with her slick. Tender, he could describe every movement, so tenderly satisfying. And as they kissed, he felt strangely ‘feminine’, as if he had truly become a woman, a sensation he had never felt with anyone else, not to this degree at least. He felt coquettish, even wanted Sadie to shower him with kisses, caresses, honey-sweet words, and he would moan softly and tell her that he was her girl and wanted her to spoil him, and so he did.

“Tell me, my lovely boy-girl, what do you want?” She cooed in his ear, her own cheeks flushed so prettily, large eyes moist and dark.

He let her nipple slip out of his mouth, the glistening bud suspended above his chin as he answered: “I shouldn’t have to tell you, Dutch…” 

He was being hard on her, this he knew. But then he was always hard on Dutch. It had to do with an implicit understanding between them that the other should always be perfect. The best they could be. Which was why it bothered him so much to see Dutch in his current state of- Not now, not now… 

“Well, let me see…” Sadie twirled the corner of her moustache. “By the sound of it, I’d reckon you want to be fucked about now. Where do you want it, son? Your pretty mouth or in the back?”

_Let’s teach you how to use that knife, boy…_

He whispered the answer to her and she readjusted his leg to position her burning hot slit fast against his and began moving, their wet folds rubbing against each other, hmmm… With the hand not curled around his thigh, she touched his breast, played with his nipple, and he hissed at the double stimulation, the pleasure that spanned all the way from the sensitive nub to his cunt and his clit, and the moistness that soaked them both now, spreading to their thighs as their movements increased in speed…

_You push in, like so, and twist…_

“Sadie, Sadie, I want to kiss you...” 

“Then kiss me, you fool…”

She bit his tongue when she came, and the bite set off his own orgasm, static coursing through his body as if in a race to see which limb would become subdued first, until his entire body was a spasming mass, clinging to her, whose own sweat-drenched frame quivered and palpitated against him. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her brow, pulling her against him as they panted and sighed towards a lethargic manner of tranquility, her head resting on his chest as she curled up around him, her long locks twined around his neck, a few strands lying whimsically across his face. 

_Hosea tells me you’ve met a girl, Mary. Yes, he said, and when asked why he hadn’t told Dutch, he responded that he didn’t think he would like it. He looked offended. Why should I not like it? You’re free to do as you please, he responded, and a month or so later he returned with a boy. This is John. Though he be but little, he is fierce! Was about to be hanged at this age, weren’t you boy? How impressive is-_

“Arthur, wake up, Arturo is waiting!”

“Mmm… tired, let me sleep, Sadie-o…”

“Arturo, the balloon fellow!”

He woke up a bit startled. They were both still naked and it looked like a couple of hours had passed already. Quickly they got ready and headed to the meeting place where they arrived a bit late, but to his credit the man had waited for them. He wasn’t convinced, however, that the black moustache which unfortunately didn’t match the light-brown hair was real, and so Arthur had to prove to him that his revolver was indeed so by firing a very real bullet, and with a few grunts and huffs the man agreed to let him board the flying vessel. He turned out to be quite a pleasant person otherwise, which made Arthur feel even more sorry when he got shot later during a levitating chase involving the O’Driscolls. But at least Marston was alive, so the sacrifice wasn’t necessarily wasted. 

As soon as they crashed into the riverbed, they were upon them again, but the two of them took care of the remaining O’Driscolls. Where did Colm get all these men from!? Once there were none left, the first thing Arthur did was to pull down his trousers to see if there was any blood on the crotch area. He then gingerly touched his belly. No pain, nothing odd or off. He still wasn't sure if he wanted it, but to lose it to Colm’s men would have been unacceptable. He noticed Sadie eyeing him, but fortunately she didn’t say anything. What she did say, however, made him rather angry and concerned, especially as it seemed like she might be considering Colm’s hanging as a priority when John needed saving, but that didn’t end up being the case. He felt ashamed for having doubted her.

“Right,” Sadie mounted Bob and winked at Arthur. “Let’s go save my other son.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“I heard that!”


	28. We’re neither pure nor wise nor good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abigail’s POV.
> 
> She’s got them housebound blues and a kinky surprise for John.
> 
> Was going to make this a short one cause I’m very much looking forward to writing the next chapter, but it actually got pretty long… Hope you’ll enjoy! ;)

A week since they’d camped in Beaver Hollow.

Four since she had last seen John.

Eight since-

“What are you counting?”

“Nothing,” She curled her fingers into a loose fist and looked up at Javier. 

“I miss him too,” He sighed and sat beside her on a broad rock by the river.

“Idiot… He’s such an… argh!” 

Javier smiled and patted her on the knee gently. “Lovable idiot.” 

She tilted her head and eyed Escuella with mild surprise. “You like… John? Thought you fancied Arthur?”

“Woah,” Javier grinned sheepishly. “Haven’t been very subtle, have I? But no, I don’t fancy Morgan. Probably only stared at him a bit too long cause I thought he and John had something going on…”

“Ah, okay…” Abigail raised an eyebrow. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Not sure.” There was a certain sincerity to his gaze when he looked at her. “Maybe I’m hoping you’d tell John?”

“If he comes back.”

“When he comes back.” He paused, then added: “Before you plan my demise, I should tell you that I don’t intend to take him away from you.”

Abigail didn’t take her eyes off Javier as he spoke. She liked him. Out of the men she had slept with before having Jack, he had been the gentlest and the most attentive; she still hadn’t forgotten the touch of those wicked fingers. For a while she had even thought she might be in love with him, until she had come to realise - thanks to a certain someone - that she preferred a more submissive partner. So no, she wouldn’t murder him, though she may end up having to geld him if he tried to steal John from her. 

“So...” She narrowed her eyes. “What is it you want?”

To Abigail’s surprise, Javier leaned forward and whispered his response to her, which she found unnecessary since it was just the two of them there, until she realised her mistake and was thankful for the discretion when a shadow covered them both and on turning their heads simultaneously they saw a frowning Dutch standing behind them, hands on hips.

“Miss Roberts, a word if you will.”

She agreed without really having a choice. He was the boss, after all, and although since his refusal to help rescue John she had come to hold a grudge against him, she still respected him and remembered what he and Hosea had done for her and Jack. So she stood up, without having responded to Javier’s words nor his appealing glance, only squeezing his shoulder lightly. It could mean a promise. It could mean nothing.

As she walked up the hill and away from the camp alongside Dutch, who had both hands clasped behind his back, she could sense autumn’s arrival and wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, waiting for him to begin. 

“How are you and Jack holding up?”

He sounded concerned. She didn’t believe it. “Okay, I guess.”

“You blame me for not saving John, I suppose?” 

She looked into his eyes, calm, even if deep down his gaze made her a tiny bit shaken. “They’ll hang him, Dutch. I won’t forgive-”

“Careful what you say, Abigail.”

She lowered her head. Heard him sigh. Heard him smile.

“I do care for John, more than you think. And I have a plan. I promise I will not let him hang.”

He stopped - so she had to as well - and placed both hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. 

“Believe in me, like you always have.”

“Sure…” She muttered and lowered her eyes lest he saw the doubt.

He saw it, nevertheless. Nothing escaped him, judging by the cold tone that was to come: “I have a task for you.”

She looked up at him and they started walking again.

“With Susan gone, the camp is a mess,” Dutch continued. “I want you to remedy that. You have, in a way, I have noticed. But I want you to officially take over her duties. If you accept, I will inform the others as well.”

She couldn’t very well not accept. “Sure, Dutch. But my boy comes first.”

“Of course,” There was a strange look in his eyes. “I very much adhere to the same principal.”

She couldn’t quite understand what the smirk meant, but didn’t dare question it either. They strolled back to the camp in silence and separated, though not before he asked her whether she had seen Arthur recently. She responded in the negative. Sadie and Arthur hadn’t said anything about wanting to share their plan to save John with Dutch and the others, so she thought it best to stay quiet. Abigail then headed towards where Jack and Tilly were crouched on the ground, playing with some plant or the other.

“What are you two up to?”

“Mama!” 

Jack jumped into her arms, screaming merrily as she twirled him around.

“We are learning plant names,” Tilly explained, pointing to a book spread open on the grass. “He learns even faster than I do!”

Abigail chuckled at the generous compliment. She recognised the book as Hosea’s and smiled at Tilly in appreciation for having almost taken over Jack’s education without being asked to. 

“Lunch is ready!”

Hearing Pearson’s announcement, the three of them went towards the chuckwagon, joining the other two women who were already lining up with their dishes in their hands, after Uncle, who was always first in line.

“Hope it’s not squirrels again…” Karen hiccuped, clearly tipsy, and probably dragged there by Mary-Beth.

“No, no, Charles shot some wild turkeys!” Uncle explained excitedly, for some reason looking rather well-dressed, and bejewelled.

Abigail eyed him for a bit before her curiosity got the better of her: “You came across some treasure or something, Uncle?”

The old man grinned. “You could say so. A treasure called Lillian!”

“Uncle has a new girl,” Pearson clarified, pouring some stew for Jack. “And turns out she is pretty wealthy.”

“We’re just friends is all!” Uncle waved a hand, taking his seat on the log next to the fire. “Friends with pecuniary benefits.”

“I get how you’re benefiting from this all, but that poor woman...” Karen joined in as she slumped down beside Uncle, eyeing the stew suspiciously. “So does this mean we’re gonna get rid of you finally?”

“Karen!” Mary-Beth laughed and elbowed her, sitting on Karen’s other side. “Who’ll entertain us if Uncle is gone?”

“Not much to be cheerful about these days…” 

“And there you are terribly wrong, Miss Jones,” Micah interjected, taking in a deeeeep breath as he approached the small gathering. “Plenty to be happy about these days. We’ve survived so far, haven’t we? Don’t tell me you’ve lost faith in Dutch, the lot of you?”

The fact that no-one in the group wanted him there was immediately visible on their faces, in lowered eyes, grimaces, and so on. Even Cain, who had joined them for a scrap of meat or bread, wouldn’t stop growling. 

“Would you like something to eat, Mr Bell?” Abigail asked, her maternal protectiveness surfacing as she witnessed the others’ discomfort, hoping that having acquired some food the man would go back to the central campfire which he had apparently taken possession of. 

“No, thanks, Miss Roberts,” He smiled, in a disconcerting way, which wasn’t really new. “I was hoping to have a word with you, actually.” He eyed Jack briefly. “In private?”

Abigail paused, her head held high as she agreed eventually and asked her son to remain with the womenfolk, following Micah to the scout’s camp in spite of the others’ warning glances. She wasn’t afraid of him. She’d had worse clients when she was younger and less experienced, knew his sort well. He was all imposing and self-important now that he’d got close to Dutch, but inside was all hollow, she reckoned. If anything, she pitied him, though not enough to want to humour any of his requests, one of which she figured was coming her way very soon. 

“I’ve got good news for you,” He leaned against a tree sideways, playing with his knife. “Looks like you’re in for a promotion, gonna be the new Grimshaw.” 

“I know,” She crossed her arms, leaning her back against another tree. “Dutch told me.”

“Oh, he did, didn’t he?” He paused, then lowered his voice. “Have you thought about my suggestion?”

“Haven’t had the time, so no.”

“Listen, Abigail... A woman like you needs a man. I know your kind. As soon as you don’t get attention from a man, you’ll wilt. And we don’t want that, do we? Not to mention the boy needs a-”

“I feel rather that it’s the other way around, Mr Bell.”

“How so?”

“A woman like me is just the sort men need,” She smirked. “Men like you, for example.”

He looked surprised for a moment. “Heh, well that’s a given… I could think of many uses for a woman like you, yeah...”

“But the thing is, you don’t know me that well. You see, you are easy. John on the other hand, he may not look it, but he is a tough filly to tame. You think you have him, but just as you think you’ve come very close, he bolts.”

“So, that’s the sort of thing that interests you?” 

She was probably mistaken but she could almost see a bit of respect in the ice-coloured eyes. 

“Yep. The only way I’d become even mildly interested in your offer is if you let me chase you, become a bit more, how do you say it, _distant_.”

Curious as she was, she didn’t get to hear his response since Williamson appeared just then and asked Bell to go see Dutch. Bill greeted Abigail and followed the other man’s trail. It was a damned lie, of course, what she had told Micah. There was no way she could ever become interested in that snake of a man, but for Jack’s sake she had to placate him and hoped that her strategy would result in his giving her a wide berth for a while. 

“Is that man bothering you again?”

She turned to smile Mr Strauss. “Nothing I can’t handle.” She disliked the whole usury side of their gang business, but at least the man was civil.

“You should speak with Dutch about it, nonetheless.”

“Maybe I shall.” 

While they walked together towards the cooking fire, Strauss tried to comfort her about John’s absence, how he hadn’t read anything in the news about his having been hanged, and how he was sure Dutch would find a way to save him. She didn’t have anything to say in response beyond a few nods. Kind as he may appear, she couldn’t bring herself to open up to him, or anyone else for that matter - except for Sadie perhaps. With Jack it had been different. As a mother she had the privilege of expressing her agony when her little boy had been kidnapped, but she wasn’t sure folk would be as forgiving if she were to do the same for John. Or maybe this was an excuse because she felt guilty for not being the sort who lamented the loss of a man, dear as he may be... 

Abigail observed Jack with an oppressed smile later that afternoon as he played with a wooden toy his papa had made for him. How do you feel? She wanted to ask the little one, but was also afraid to hear that he was even more scared than she was. So she just ruffled his hair and felt her chest expanding with joy when the boy beamed at her. 

“He’s a smart boy.”

It was the Reverend, much more sober than she had seen him in a long while. Looked like the Hollow did someone some good at least.

“That he is,” She nodded. “Far more than his momma.”

Swanson chuckled, then became more serious: “Be brave, Miss Roberts.”

“I am.”

She didn’t quite feel like talking to anyone after that, and although waiting alone would increase her worries, she retreated to her and John’s tent with the excuse that it was time for Jack to have an afternoon nap, dragging the protesting boy with her. He had just fallen asleep when-

“John?” She couldn’t believe her ears. “John! My John! He’s back...” She was out in a moment and the sight that welcomed her was the best of any she had ever seen in her entire life - barring anything that had to do with Jack. “You brought him back to me!”

And so he they had. John was back. Back in her arms. Back in his arms. Even thinner and smellier than before, but how she loved it all, her John, with her now, with them. 

Though not everyone seemed to desire her man’s return. It was soon made clear that Dutch wasn’t happy at all and the rest of the conversation that transpired was ugly. So much so that even much later that evening John was still fuming and brooding. She knew better, however, had seen these things happen before, though perhaps not with the present intensity, and was aware (hoped) that once they were out of this conundrum, relationships would improve. Of course, she could go on and whisper to John how she had been right all along about their having to leave and start on their own, but she wasn’t that kind of woman. She did know of a way to make him feel better. Woman of her word that she was, however, she wasn’t prepared to let him fuck her yet. Even so, she had just the plan that could work...

“Why the blindfold?”

She hushed John and proceeded to tie a dark bandana around his eyes, before stepping back and gazing at him in increasing rapture: naked, entirely, except for the blindfold of course, kneeling on a bedroll in the middle of an abandoned cabin, shivering, moon-touched, clean - she had made him take a bath an hour so ago - and cock already half-hard, waiting. She would have purred, had she been a cat. She would have told him how profoundly she loved him, had she been whole.

“Oh, John, you look so lovely like this.”

“I’m cold...”

“You’ll be warm soon.”

She stepped forward, bent and kissed him chastely on his brow, pulling away just as he was about to cling to her skirts. He was on all fours now, treading carefully as he tried to catch her, but she kept dodging and laughing to watch him fail repeatedly, begging for her mercy, which she would not give, knowing he wouldn’t want it either in his heart of hearts. 

“Come here,” She ordered, finally coming to stand at the head of the bedroll. 

Abigail watched John come to her on his hands and knees, and sighed in glory when he wrapped his hands about her shins, quickly burying his head beneath her skirts, fingers inching upwards as he kissed and licked her thighs over the underwear, mouthing her sex over the fabric, making it ever moister than it was already. 

“Good boy…”

She pressed his head into her heat, holding tight, until she felt him become too eager and herself too tempted, so she drew him back and away from her skirts, readjusting the crooked blind fold and tightening the knot so it wouldn’t fall off so easily this time. 

“All fours again, John,” She instructed.

He did as he was told, good boy that he was, and propped his ass higher in the air when she pressed the tip of her boot on the back of his neck, gently pushing him down until one side of his face rested on the bedroll, tongue automatically darting out to lick her boot when she offered it to him. The little kisses, although she couldn’t feel them exactly, sent devilish jolts of pleasure to her very core. 

“Good boy…” She cooed again, rotating the boot to let him suck on the heel. “You’re a good boy, ain’t you?”

“Mhmm,” Came the mumbled response.

“Were you a good boy in prison?” 

“Mhmmmm…” 

Hmm, she wasn’t convinced, so she pulled back her foot, depriving the man - if he could be called that in a moment like that - from his sustenance, until he was reduced to imploring and even dared to use his paws to draw her boot into mouth’s reach again. 

“Were you lonely in prison?”

“Yeah…” Greedy lips separated from her ankle momentarily to whine the affirmation.

“Hmm, think I better check…” 

She pulled her foot free and moved behind him without paying mind to his meek objections. Taking out a jar of fat from her satchel, she dipped two fingers inside the jar before circling them on the puckered hole, already winking in anticipation and pushing them in, first one, immediately followed by two, all the way, humming to hear him keen and gasp, which intensified as her familiar digits found his prostate and began massaging, with the added seesawing motion she had never used before. Not like he would remember though, they hadn’t done this for a long time, considering which, he seemed to be a bit loose...

“Did you miss me, John?” Abigail asked kindly, though she itched to spank him till he was red red red for lying to her, at the same time gesturing for Javier, who had been leaning against the doorframe for a while now eyeing the scene with a smile on his face, to come in. 

“Yeah, so much, so… hnghh...”

“I missed you too, Johnny boy,” She murmured, moving her other hand to give his leaking cock just a tiny tortuous tug, feeling herself getting even wetter to hear him hiss. “There is someone else who missed you too…”

Before he could say anything, she pulled her fingers out and shuffled to kneel in front of the bedroll, next to John’s head, covering his mouth with a hand while the other held his neck in a tender grasp. He seemed to flinch to feel a different pair of hands on his rump, though he didn’t move, the bedroll creasing in-between his fingers as a moan escaped through Abigail’s fingers. 

“Who do you think it is?” 

She grinned and winked at Javier who, in her opinion, was far too gentle with his caresses. Abigail removed her hand only long enough to let John answer. 

“Dutch?”

The words had barely left John’s mouth when they were chased by a sharp yelp as his ass was spanked a few times by the erstwhile gentle hands. Abigail smiled to see Javier bending to kiss and lick the throbbing hand prints. 

“Guess again,” She moved her hand under her skirts and underwear to stroke herself, brushing the fingers of the other hand through John’s hair, her lips parting to see Javier doing the same with his own prick.

“Uh… It’s not Arthur… Trelawny?”

Abigail and Javier looked at each other and burst out in silent laughter. John was spanked again, moaned again, and was comforted again with kisses and caresses on both ends, with Abigail’s fingers now slipping into his mouth, acting as a pacifier. 

“Metter mot be Micah!” John muttered just before the fingers shifted to his ear, tweaking and pinching his earlobe. 

“You’re hopeless, friend…” Javier sighed, unable to hold back any longer as he rubbed his length along John’s crack. 

Abigail sighed almost at the same time, licking her lips to see the angry head peeking above the round cheeks. 

“Javier…” John more mewled more than spoke, and it seemed to Abigail that he had shifted a tiny bit as he presented himself better for the other man, muscles of his shoulder untensing as he melted into submission. 

“Bingo!” Javier chuckled, voice husky in need as, kneading the attractive derriere, he murmured: “Do you want it John? I’ve been wanting for so long, wanted to fuck you so badly…”

John sighed, nodded and clung tighter to Abigail who was stroking herself faster now, enjoying the charming sight before her, gasping when Javier pushed inside and abruptly began moving, punching guttural moans out of John’s throat. She took his hand and guided it under her skirts, through the slit in her underwear, and pushed two quivering fingers inside her aching passage, as she herself attended to her clit, eyes never leaving the divine spectacle before her. 

Javier was pounding with all his might now, brow glistening with sweat, making the boy’s cheeks tremble deliciously with each impact. He must have been getting close when he moved a hand to John’s neglected cock and milked it a few times. It didn’t take long for John to come, followed by Javier and then Abigail who kept cursing them both aloud for being such quickshots and ruining her edging plans...

Three hours and a dozen orgasms later, the three of them were sprawled on the floor, side by side, with a naked John wedged between a half-clothed Abigail and Javier, who coated him in affectionate kisses and caresses, while sharing a cigarillo. 

“Can he come with us?” John asked, nuzzling her temple with the tip of his nose.

“Maybe…”

“Can I come where?” Javier raised an eyebrow.

“We’re gonna leave,” John explained. “As soon as we’ve got some money, we’re gonna take Jack and settle somewhere as a proper family.”

“You’re welcome to join us,” Abigail said. “But you’ll have to work hard. It won’t be easy living.”

“What about Dutch and the others? You’re not just gonna abandon them, are you?”

“Of course not...” John yawned. “We’re gonna make sure everyone is okay before we leave.”

She was so proud of him then for either wittingly or unwittingly saving them the trouble of seeming like some traitors. Though she wasn’t sure it had worked, considering the look on Javier’s face.

“What about the gang? What about loyalty?”

“Loyalty works both ways, Mr Escuella,” She said, firmly. “The Marstons are loyal to those who are loyal to them in return.” 

Abigail sensed John’s lips as he pressed a kiss along her neck, and felt a pleasant warmth spreading across her body and thoughts, knowing she had chosen her mate well.


	29. Je me prenais à te maudire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s POV.
> 
> Poetry, darkness and… wait for it… angst! Aka, the emo chapter...
> 
> For ficcing purposes let’s assume the cage wasn’t removed from the Beaver Hollow cave.

_Look not in my eyes, for fear_  
_They mirror true the sight I see,_  
_And there you find your face too clear_  
_And love it and be lost like me._

John read the underlined verses twice, flipped the book and looked at the spine for the title: _A Shropshire Lad_ by A. E. Houseman. Opened the book again, learned that it had been published in New York only two years prior, found the point where he had left off and kept leafing through the pages, reading more underlined lines: 

_I think the love I bear you_  
_Should make you not to die._

Wondering at the same time what was going on with all the strange drawings at the margin of selected verses.

_And I slept out in flesh and bone_  
_**Manful** like the man of stone._

Or why some words had been underlined twice.

_And **faith** , ‘tis pleasant till ‘tis past:_  
_The mischief is that ‘twill not last._

Some were circled. 

_I’d face it as a ~~wise~~ man would,_  
_And train for ill and not for good._

Some struck out.

_And I will friend you, if I may,_  
_In the dark and cloudy day._

And some had tiny notes scribbled at their side. _Huh_ … He couldn’t make nor heads or tails of it, and eventually getting bored, he placed the book back on Arthur’s bed where he had found it, though forgetting which page it had been left opened at as it lay face down on the blanket. 

He had picked the book up thinking it was Morgan’s journal, curious to have a peek inside and see what he kept writing about all the time, hence was somewhat disappointed to come across a book of poetry instead. Exhaling a sigh, John cast a glance towards Dutch’s tent across from where he was sitting and, finding him alone for once - apparently even Micah had to take a crap sometimes - decided it was time for them to have a chat. Abigail had advised against it, but he had to let it out. This was not how things used to work, and Hosea’s absence was no excuse for them all to start acting like they hadn’t been living together for over a decade. 

He removed himself from Arthur’s cot and walked to the tent situated at the mouth of the cave. Dutch was doubled over a book, so seemingly absorbed in reading that he didn’t even notice his presence. John had expected him to look more upbeat, having finally gotten rid of one of his arch-nemeses, namely Cornwall, that same morning. That didn’t appear to be the case, however. 

“What are you reading?” John asked after a bit of loitering.

“Do you really want to know?” Was the response, eyes still lowered on the book.

Remembering the whole ordeal with _The Prince_ , John responded in the negative.

“You never finished the other book, did you?” His gaze was on him now, not precisely unkind, rather tired. 

“Was in prison, Dutch.”

His addressee smiled coolly and tilted his head slightly to the right. “Where you should have remained till I came for you.”

“Till I hanged, you mean?” Sensing the barely subdued resentment returning, he shifted on his feet.

Dutch’s eyes remained fixed on him for a second. He then stood up, speaking as he did so: “Let’s take a stroll, shall we? Looks like we need to talk.”

“We’re talking here.”

He stepped back immediately when Dutch approached him, having cast the book to the floor, his voice lowered: “What are you afraid of, John? That I might fuck you or that I might kill you?”

“Can’t do neither.” He stood his ground, even if he had to lean back a bit.

“Can’t I?” Dutch murmured, gently almost, as he bent forward so his softly moving lips nearly touched John’s throat.

A hand involuntarily travelled to the man’s waistcoat to clutch at the lapel. They remained like that for a while, only the sound of their breathing and John’s own thumping heart audible. Finally, Dutch seemed to have made up his mind, withdrew, stern regard still focused on John, until it abruptly softened as if he had spied something in the young man’s countenance that he had not seen before. He raised his hand and John felt fingertips brushing over his scars.

“Do you hate me _now_?”

“No…” He leant his head into the touch, though the hand retreated nevertheless. “I’m angry though, can’t help thinking you did me wrong, twi-”

“Do you want me to apologise?”

How would that solve anything, John thought bitterly, words leaving his mouth unbidden now: “You saw them take me down at the bank and just... let them.”

“Maybe…” Dutch stepped away, his back turned to him now. “Perhaps I did it on purpose.”

John opened his mouth but his arms took the initiative and he shoved the other man before adding a: “Why!?”

“To save Arthur.”

Lie, a goddamn lie! He couldn’t read it in his face, but it must be, and as far as lies go, this one was so low on the believability scale that John didn’t even know what to say. He didn’t have to think much, however, since a moment later he was grabbed by both arms and kissed. Silenced, more like. Worst part being he couldn’t stop kissing him back, with the same rough desperation, as if trying to make out whether the man before him, whom he had known for so long, was real or just as illusory as the words waltzing out of his mouth.

“I’m going for a walk in the cave,” Dutch explained once they had separated, still holding the nape of his neck in a tight grip, eyes peering into his. “Will you join me?”

John nodded and gasped when he was let go of. He barely observed Dutch putting something in his pocket, then lighting a lantern before stepping out of the tent. He still didn’t fully trust him, but he had to find out just how bad the situation was. If he was going to leave the gang eventually, he needed to make sure there would be minimal regrets. And so he followed the other man into the cavernous corridors, eyes surveying wall patches illuminated by the lantern light. He hadn’t yet had a chance to explore the place and it all seemed very dismal to him, unnaturally so. They walked until they came across a cage of sorts. 

“Would you kindly step inside?”

Dutch held the cage’s door open and motioned for him to get in.

“Why?” John asked even as he complied with the request.

He only received a cryptic smile in response, and soon the lantern was put out, the cave deluged in total darkness. 

“Is this some sort of game?” John asked, irked. 

Again, no response. And no response after a few minutes had passed either, so he exhaled a sigh and sank to the ground, back resting against the bars adjacent to the wall. _Very funny_... The door wasn’t locked, so he could leave if he wanted to, but he was too curious at this point, even if he had little patience for anything other than a straightforward conversation. 

He could hear the ring of Dutch’s spurs as he began walking around the cage, almost like an animal gone mad in captivity, though the circumstances had been reversed and at present the beast happened to be outside the cage. That sound diminished into nonexistence as well. All was still for what seemed like an hour to John, but which probably lasted only a few minutes. Then...

“How do you feel?” Dutch asked, voice echoing. 

_Bored_ … 

“This is how I feel.” Dutch resumed, before John could respond. “How I’ve been feeling since the bank heist. Since…” It seemed like he was going to say something, but there was a pause, after which the timber of his voice changed: “There is nothing worse for a leader than being doubted constantly.” 

“Once upon a time you weren’t no leader, Dutch. Just one of us…” He heard the cage door open and the other step in. “I looked up to you as a mentor, a friend, someone I dreamed to be like, but now… I don’t know what to think no more.” He sensed the other man sitting down beside him. “But I’m a simple man. Don’t understand much of the deep stuff. So why don’t you tell me what’s going on? With you and the gang?”

He had anticipated Dutch to either wax defensive or offer him more of his eloquent fabrications, so he was surprised when he remained quiet. John flinched to feel a hand placed upon his own. 

“You make simplicity look beautiful.” 

John had certainly not expected to hear those words, or the gentle touches that followed when the hand that had begun caressing his moved upwards to his forearm, and still higher until it came to rest on first one shoulder, then the opposite, as the other pulled him closer. He didn’t quite know how to feel about the unprecedented warmth, or the emotional burden that came with it. He suspected Dutch wanted something from him, but wasn’t sure what it was exactly, or whether he could provide it. He felt almost relieved when he was pushed down onto the ground, when the touches grew more insistent, kisses hot on his throat and later exposed chest more bite-like, digits curled among his hair less benevolent.

He was certain Dutch was going to fuck him, was ready for it, wanted it, so sensing a delay he asked him what was wrong and received the answer that he only wanted to hold him, which confused John even more. It wasn’t easy settling in the other’s embrace when he shifted to lie down behind him. It took John a while to get used to the feeling of being held to the point where he was able to relax, which also required some mental effort since he couldn’t help wondering all the time what sort of scheme lay behind this sudden need for intimacy. 

“You feel good, John…”

He felt Dutch’s fingers wrapping tighter around his wrist as the man drew John’s hand away from his growing length, simultaneously pulling him closer against his frame, face buried in his hair, lips barely touching the nape of his neck, a leg pushing its way between his thighs so that he felt the heat in his lower abdomen multiplying, without having the permission to do anything about it. 

“You feel good too...” 

It was all he could muster at that moment. And true in a way, a very strange way, and more surprising still was to hear the deep sigh released in reaction to the words, desperate mouth now pressing against burning skin, and he moaned to feel the trail of kisses and nips that stretched all the way from the side of his neck to his jaw, arriving at their destination when he tilted his head just enough to let their mouths meet in an unhurried, wordless conversation. 

“I was coming for you…” Dutch murmured, shifting their bodies slightly again so he was on top of him. “I was worried…”

John let the palms of his hands drift all over the man’s chest, feeling the outline of muscles and ribs through the various layers of fabric. Sensing the other’s hardness against his thigh, he inhaled a sharp breath, heady with the scent of arousal, cigar fragrance, dirt and lies. 

“Perhaps you were, I can’t even tell anymore...” He spoke after an interval, panting as he lay in the other’s arms. “But the truth is you care for yourself more than anyone else, Dutch, and if saving me meant you would be putting yourself in danger then I’m sure you wouldn’t have come.” 

He didn’t want to be cruel, but he couldn’t believe for one moment that Dutch had abandoned him at the bank in order to save Arthur. Running his fingers through the other’s slightly tousled hair, his heartbeat pulsing against his own, it occurred to John that this wasn’t the Dutch he knew. This was not the Dutch who had assaulted the Braithwaite manor, himself standing at the front as he demanded Jack’s return. And if Dutch had seen it fit to change, then perhaps he shouldn’t feel bad for changing alliances either, in favour of his family. 

“ _So here I’ll watch the night and wait, to see the morning shine, when he will hear the stroke of eight, and not the stroke of nine_...”

Hearing the poem whispered in a hushed tone, John peeled his eyes, but it was too dark to see anything beyond half-formed shapes. 

“Where is that from?”

“A poem by A. E. Housman, an Englishman,” Dutch responded, slowly removing himself into a sitting position. “I used to read it thinking of you. But maybe you are right, John. Maybe this was never meant to be. This family-”

“Arthur was reading the same,” John interrupted, partly so that he wouldn’t have to hear what the other was going to say. 

“How do you mean?”

“Found the book on his cot. What’s funny?” He asked to hear the man chuckle, himself sitting up as well, tidying his clothes, leaning against the cage alongside Dutch.

“I pity that poor volume… Arthur doesn’t read books, you see, she ravages them. It’s why I don’t lend her my books anymore.” 

In the brief light that flashed into existence by the strike of a match when Dutch lit himself a cigar, John saw the smile on his face. He wondered if he would be offered a much-needed drag.

“Were there the usual drawings and those infernal lines?” Dutch enquired. “The dog ears are the worst though…”

“Yeah… Coyotes, wolves, snakes in flowers, circles, writings, you name it…”

“Shit… Got that book just after we got back from Guarma too. And you say you found it on her cot?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, son, this was an enlightening chat,” Dutch stood up all of a sudden and began dusting his clothes. “Come talk to me again if you felt so utterly furious.” 

Was he mocking him? John didn’t have time to discover the answer. He heard the other man finding his way towards the cage’s door, he heard him close door, and also heard some noises similar to something being chained. _What the fuck?_

“By the way, Arthur is pregnant.” All he saw was a devilish countenance masked behind a cloud of smoke made visible by the orange light of the cigar. “You may very well be the father. Congratulations.”

“WHAT!?” 

The man was gone. The cage was secured with a chain and a padlock.

“WAIT! DUTCH! DUUUUTCH!”

The door wouldn’t budge, not even after half an hour had passed, and of course he had to leave his gun belt in the tent when he needed it most... John must have stayed there for about an hour or two, when finally Javier came to his rescue. From his confusion he could tell he mustn’t have been given much information about how John came to be locked in a cage in a dark cave. Thank goodness he wasn’t afraid of the dark like he was of water…

“Are you okay, brother?”

“Yeah, just dandy…” He hissed while his eyes got used to the light of the lantern. 

Javier brushed his clothes for him and made an attempt at tidying his hair before he pushed his hand away. But the man was still smiling, even leaned in and kissed John on the cheek.

“ _¡Ay de mí!, Llorona, Llorona, Llorona, mucho te adoro..._ ” Javier sang playfully as he led a testy John through the corridors. “How did you end up here?”

“Don’t ask… Say, have you seen Arthur around?”

“No, don’t think he’s back yet.”

“Okay… Damn!” 

He cursed when he slipped and Javier pulled him up, and before John knew what he was doing, he was pushing Escuella against a curved wall, kissing him as passionately as he touched him all over his body, inhaling the lovely scent that was always about the man; a mixture of gunpowder and something floral... 

Javier laughed his charming laugh. “Shouldn’t we tell Abigail first?”

John withdrew a little and stared at the handsome brown eyes. “No, she won’t mind anyway… Just touch me with your hand.”

He did exactly the same as he had asked once they both dropped to the humid ground whose coldness was lost to them once they had freed their cocks and were stroking each other with mindless fervour, John on top of a gracefully yielding Javier. 

“John…” The other man gasped mid-action. “My clothes… don’t cum on my pants!”

He laughed and for a moment thought he would do just that, but then recalled how ill-tempered Escuella got whenever his clothes were stained, so he unbuttoned the man’s jacket, vest, shirt, union suit, and all just in time for him to release his load on Javier’s shivering stomach, into whose skin he rubbed the seed while he swiftly manipulated the other into completion. 

“Gonna cum inside you next time…” He sighed as he lay down beside Javier, entire body still buzzing from the fiercely fine pleasure that had washed through him only seconds before.

Javier just chuckled and bit his neck in response, speaking after a bout of panting silence: “Hey, Marston… Have you talked to Micah recently?”

“That crazy bastard? No, why?”

“He’s not that crazy… Resourceful, if you ask me.”

“What are you saying?” He lifted himself on an elbow and stared at Escuella in disbelief. “Has he gone to your head too?”

“Of course not. But it looks to me like he knows what he’s doing…”

“Yeah, I’m sure he knows exactly what he’s doing… Unlike you, my friend.”

“And you, friend, do you know what you are doing?” Javier sat up and smoothed his clothes. “At least him and Dutch have been working on a plan to get us to a better place.”

“Get them to a better place, you mean,” He almost spat, sitting up as well. “Do you think Micah’s gonna give a rat’s ass if any of us gets killed carrying out his plans?”

“Well, we’re each responsible for our own lives, no?” 

They were both standing now. 

“You maybe,” John stared at Javier. “I have at least two more people to take care of, if not more…”

“More?”

“Never mind. Let’s go back.”

“Good idea… But think about it. Would do us good if you and Morgan stopped antagonising Bell.”

“We ain’t the problem.”

“That’s what everyone likes to think.”

They stopped at the mouth of the cave. It was raining now. 

“I don’t know what that snake’s been hissing in your ear, Javier, but you better think well about whose side you want to be on.”

He pulled up his collar and was walking briskly towards his tent when he heard the other’s final response.

“My whole point is that there shouldn’t be sides!”

He was right, John reckoned, but it was too late to change things now.


	30. Le cheval est placé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dutch’s POV.
> 
> Wherein Dutch undergoes a harrowing experience and Arthur is there to… help him?
> 
> Warning: starts on a very dark note but ends on a slightly lighter one.

Life is a game of chess. Or so some claimed. Not so Dutch. A game of chess requires a single opponent who is aware of the existence of the game in the first place. That was not usually the case, unless one was the religious sort or believed in fate. Perhaps various phases of life could be compared to matches played against various opponents. The way he saw it though, if it had to be compared to a game of chess, life would consist of one person moving pieces against pieces, some of which had a will of their own and/or were replaced once removed from the board. Such that, for instance, if he had gotten rid of Cornwall, it wouldn’t mean he had eliminated a peer, rather another piece. Now on to the next piece(s)…

He himself constituted a piece, of course, never being one to remain in the shadows, like Bronte’s sort, while others did the job. Indeed, he could even be a pawn on the board of some other individual, or worse, an institution such as the government. All his life, his entire aim had been to prevent that, to have enough authority to remain unmoved, and if moved, by his own volition, while constantly learning and improving tactics to move others to his will. Some may call this manipulation... Dutch, he called it administration. The same principal was what he had tried to teach others, though he suspected some of them had either remained entirely uneducated or did not quite see themselves as kings on their own boards. 

Mac and Davey Callander were examples of the former. Sean, like the latter group, would have always remained a pawn, too hot-headed to step back for a moment and reflect. Jenny, as was the cruel lot of her sex, was similar by virtue of being drilled into from early on that she had no other choice but to cherish and obey. Susan, Molly and Karen were much the same, though they liked to think otherwise. Mary-Beth less so. Tilly, he had got to at an impressionable enough age to fortify her with a sense of agency. She made him proud. Abigail… Well, he suspected Miss Roberts was somewhat erudite in the ways of the world, yet only had three pieces on her board, with herself as the queen, her son as the king, and Marston occupying the role of all other pieces at once. 

Residing on two boards at the same time made John useless to him, unreliable, much like his counterpart. Lately, Dutch had arrived at the decision that he should install Escuella and perhaps Eagle Flies as his knights, a place which could have also been given to Lenny, had the promising lad survived. Bell, thanks to his ingenuity and enthusiasm, had already replaced Hosea as the queen. Strauss and Trelawny retained their ranks as bishops, and Williamson and Smith functioned well enough as rooks. Quite an impressive makeup, which nevertheless didn’t hide the fact that more pawns were required. He couldn’t very well send the camp cook on missions. Mrs Adler was a wild card, though a useful one if played well. Swanson was a ghost of a pawn, and Uncle a backgammon piece mixed in the bunch by mistake. 

Only a few of them were probably aware that the reason pawns were required was so that no key pie-

“You look like you’re watching a bear-baiting match and is on the losing side.”

Arthur. Who else could come up with these nonsensical analogies.

“Does anyone do that sort of thing anymore?” 

He watched her sit down beside him, some distance away from the rest of the group while they waited for darkness to fall to raid the boat and take back the horses Favours had acquired by force.

She lit a cigarette. “Well, at times looks like you came from some bygone age...”

“How so?” He was not amused, at all.

“You know, like one of them crusaders, on a pilgrimage with a bunch of hopefuls to some promised land…”

He shook his head to unlatch his gaze from her distracting hand movements and fixed his eyes on hers. “What have you been reading now, boy?”

“I’ve been thinking, we ain’t so different from those ancient knights,” Arthur carried on without paying attention to his question. A habit he had tried to get her out of without succeeding so far. “We take what we want, justify the plunder by some righteous-” 

“Well, yes, you could say that ancestors of landowners today were once thieves and murderers,” He corrected her. “But we are different. We are stealing back from the thieves. Ours is a noble cause, Arthur.”

“Ain’t so noble if we drag these poor people in it. If our free province is built on the sacrifice of others, then we’re no different than those old European feudal lords you despise so much, Dutch.”

“No one is going to be sacrificed,” He responded, articulating each word in a low, calm tone. “We are giving these people the gift of opportunity, and ourselves a chance to get out of this mess and onwards to New York. It’s a win-win situation.”

“Remind me to never accept gifts from you...” 

Her chuckle sounded bitter.

“That’s not very kind,” He said, and regretted having said the pathetic words immediately as they left his mouth, wishing he could swallow them back, and since that was not possible the alternative was to conceal the impression they had produced. “But then what should I expect? _Faith is pleasant till it’s past_ …”

“You went through my book?” Her cheeks flushed in a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

“My book, you mean.” He raised both eyebrows, infinitesimally. “Though, I have to say, I don’t even like it that much, too… melancholy for my taste.”

“And of all things you recall that one line alone?”

“Of all things that one rang most true.”

She looked hurt. Bowed her head, eyes cast downwards, presumably so he wouldn’t see. But he wanted to. Sometimes, just sometimes, he loved to see the hurt in her eyes. It moved something inside him. Roused a dormant part of him, which was not necessarily charitable even towards himself, voracious as it was, demanding more and more wreckage. But whose mere presence made him feel different, active. And so he continued, with one purpose in mind: _Suffer for me_... 

“Are you sure you want to be here for this job, Arthur?” He added after a spell of silence, voice dripping with sweet consideration. She lit a second cigarette. “I’m sure we can manage without you. You’ve been looking very tired recently, and... indifferent? You should take some time off, go camp somewhere for a while, hmm?”

“Someone has to stop you before this all goes to hell…”

“And you imagine you can do that?” He asked, still softly. “When have you ever stopped me from doing anything, Arthur? Let me guess how this goes: I’ll make a mess of things, you’ll just watch and complain all the time, but do as I say anyway.”

The look she gave him when she turned to face him made him avert his eyes, only briefly, not because he regretted what he was saying, but since there was the danger she might see right through him - Hosea always had. No matter. He could throw her off the trail quite easily, and words were always the best weapons; they didn’t even have to be sharp to cut.

“I’m sorry, son. I know I’m being harsh,” He resumed, having polished the remaining hard edges off his tone. “It’s just I miss you, the way you were, how perfect you were, and now…” 

He felt the heat first, before moving his gaze to see the cigarette tip suspended less than a second away from the back of his hand. His gaze shifted back to Arthur’s, locking. He held his hand still. _Go on. Do it._ For a moment he thought she might, but of course she wouldn’t. So he tried to do it for her, as always. Soon as she was about to withdraw her hand, he seized her wrist and drew it closer to his own, the heat almost burning the coarse hair covering his knuckles. She gasped, eyes growing wide as she struggled to pull back, at last using her other hand to snatch the cigarette and toss it away.

He expected her to yell or something similar so was a bit shocked when he was slapped, hard, and couldn’t control himself when he-

“Is everything alright?”

It was Charles. Dutch’s grip slackened. Arthur broke free, murmured something to the other and they moved away, together. They seemed to have gotten quite chummy over the course of the past few months. No use wasting time thinking about it until nightfall, which crept nigh slowly, tormentingly so. And while they managed to recapture the horses, the whole escapade did cost them a possible ship which could have been employed to their benefit. A mess. 

Even so, he got to learn more about the young son of the chief, which he was beginning to admire more and more. His rage, his youthful energy, his conviction, and his acceptance of the fact that one had to take risks if one wanted to get anywhere in life, all were signs of a worthy personage. In a way, he reminded him of Marston before Jack, Morgan before Mary, Matthews… Well, maybe not Hosea, who had always been cautious, even when he was young. Dutch had liked that in him though, it worked well, created a nice balance between the pair of them, what with his bravado and ambition and Hosea’s forethought and strategic brilliance. But enough of that.

There was a fort to be surveyed, which was done with great stealth and skill, and daresay a measure of delight. It did him good, did the boy good too, who seemed to be fed up with his father’s senile timidity. If Dutch had suspected that Rains Fall might cause problems in the implementation of their plans, his worries were alleviated when Eagle Flies gave him assurance that he had no qualms in going against the wish of his father if it meant the dignity of their people would be saved. Dignity. He liked that word. It had the same quality as ‘honour’. They both had the power to move pieces towards performing what may be deemed against individual benefit, but which could benefit the grand collective. In himself, he much preferred attributes such as a will to survive and a knowledge to know how. 

His threads of thought were unravelled when, next afternoon on his way back to the camp, he came across an unexpected sight. A white horse, not unlike his own, standing by the side of the road, seeming alone, though he discovered otherwise when on getting closer he saw someone perched next to the mare’s hindleg, checking the animal’s ankle. 

“Something wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s pretty superficial.”

He brought The Count to a stop without alighting. 

“What happened?”

“Murfrees.”

“Going somewhere or returning?”

“Going.”

“Better change your ride then.” He offered her a hand. “Come, I’ll give you a lift back to the camp.”

She eyed him tentatively at first before eventually accepting the offer, though seemed a bit surprised when he pulled her to settle on the front instead of the back. They didn’t need to tie the mare’s lead to the pummel. She followed on her own accord.

“Is she in season?” 

“What, no… Why?” 

“Let me know when she goes into heat next time. I’d like to breed them.”

“Don’t think I’d like that. Anyway, it’s almost autumn.”

“Why wouldn’t you like it? She looks purebred enough, though you never told me where you got her from.”

“Fairyland. Looked like it anyway.”

She smiled and he felt her finally relaxing enough to rest her back against his chest. He had to suppress a sigh. 

“When I first saw her, it looked like she had just passed the threshold from a magical land into ours, just as I was passing by.” Arthur continued. “Sometimes I think maybe I should have let her be, preserve her proud majesty.”

“You are strange, Arthur Morgan.”

“You’re one to talk, Dutch van der Linde… Where are we going?”

“On a little detour.”

In response, she sighed, and sighed soon after in an entirely different manner when he inserted a yearning hand into her now unfastened jeans. She clasped his forearm with both hands, but didn’t push it away, and he growled to feel her grinding against his palm while he bent to lick her neck in lieu of the place he truly wished to lick, for now inaccessible. Eventually, Dutch let go of the reins and let his other hand slide all the way up her thigh to her waist and to her chest, cupping her breasts jealously as he pushed his half-hard length against her damnably clothed backside, thighs gripping the saddle fast so they wouldn’t fall off the horse. 

“I’m not perfect, Dutch.”

“Hmm?” He hummed in-between indulging in bites of various intensity marking her neck and throat. 

“Never was.” She half-murmured in-between laden breaths. “You used to say how… how I always kept the ability to become better... how it amazed you...”

He bit her clothed shoulder before speaking: “I did, yes.”

“You don’t like that about me anymore?”

He felt his heart drop somewhere between The Count’s front hooves, if he had one to begin with, which sometimes he doubted. At the same time, it occurred to him how inefficient he was at using words as a genuine means of comfort. So instead he began kissing her anew, gently, all over the bitemarks, scars old and fresh, his hand finding its way inside her clothes in direct contact with her comfortably warm skin, just as the animal came to a stop on a grassy hill where he began grazing.

“Cause if you don’t…” She moaned when he pinched her nipple. “Then I won’t like it either…”

Time stopped.

There is no such thing as perfection, he wanted to whisper to her while brushing his fingers through her hair. And when asked why he had said otherwise earlier, he would say that he did it to hurt her. Because it made him feel significant, to see someone as strong as she damaged by a sentence spoken by someone as weak as himself. Because it made him feel loved, to see someone as beautiful as she bruised by someone as ugly as himself. Because it made him feel. To see that although others such as Smith, for example, could make her happy, that it was only he who could wound her. _Yet, yet, you have faith. You still have faith..._

But he didn’t say any of these. Instead, he dragged her, half-exposed, down the horse as he dismounted himself, hauling her off behind some nearby bushes to fuck her into submission. But no, he wouldn’t even have to do that. _Look at the state of you, Arthur…_ He wasn’t sure how long it would take her this time to mend, so he would have her now while the cut was yet to heal, so that he could penetrate her, fully and unconditionally. 

Dutch pushed Athur to the ground and bent her over a supine tree trunk. He had wanted to fuck her on top of The Count, but as hot-blooded as the horse was that sort of feat would not have been possible. Perhaps he should invest in a draft horse, Dutch mused, flipping Arthur onto her back, now draped over the log so that her hair touched dirt while her hips were positioned higher up, pulled around his thighs, as he knelt on the ground with legs wide open. He freed his cock. Looked up for a moment, saw the modest curves at the corner of her lips, and went soft. 

At first, he couldn’t believe it. It had never, never happened to him before. He tried to stroke himself into hardness again, failing…

“Don’t fret, it happens.” 

He looked up at her, frowning, confused. She wasn’t smiling anymore but looked amused as she propped herself up to sit on the log, one elbow resting on his shoulder as she peered down at his shame. 

“No it doesn’t.” He said almost without thinking. “Not to me.”

“Yeah, it does, did to me too.” She pushed him till he was lying on his back, knees bent still with the soles of his boots secure on the ground as she stretched herself on top of him. “It’s temporary… Though sometimes it isn’t. Could be permanent.”

For a moment he thought she was serious, till lifting his head he saw that cheeky grin and huffed as he let his head fall back to rest on a folded arm, the other arm shifting to circle her waist. 

“Did it happen with Mary?”

“Never got there with Mary. She liked kissing just fine, but wouldn’t go further.”

“Who then?”

“Eliza.”

_Who?_

“First few times after she told me she was expecting.”

Ah. He had forgotten the girl’s name.

“And after that some working girls...”

“Do you miss your son?”

He remembered his name, but wasn’t sure if he should say it, didn’t feel clean enough to say it. 

“Always.”

He pulled her close and kissed her on top of her head, gently stroking her belly in a deliberate pace. They stayed like that for some time. He would have fallen asleep had it not been for the uncomfortable sensation of moisture seeping into his clothes from below. 

“So, what are you gonna do now you’re useless, Dutch?” She taunted him. “Want me to go find some cure? Heard stallion piss works wonders.”

“Shut up, Arthur.” He smacked her ass lightly. “Just ride my thigh if you’re horny.”

He didn’t expect her to do it. But she did. First pulling off both their trousers, then ripping a large gap in the leg of his union suit so she could rub her moist slit over his naked thigh, saying she liked the feeling of the hair against her folds. Odd creature. He watched her idly for a while, playing with her breast with a hand. Smiling to see her get into it, taking her pleasure from him, and for some reason suddenly laughing.

“What now?”

“Rejoice! The monster rises!”

Damn, it was true… Hah! His mood instantly elevated, Dutch swiftly brought himself to full revival. 

“The monster is hungry. Feed it.”

He hissed in absolute bliss when she sank down on him, her hot tightness gripping his shaft. He asked her to go slow, so he could savour every moment of it, but soon lost patience himself and was driving into her from below, hard and fast, then slower, remembering the child. Her eyes lingered on his when she came, his own climax coinciding with the board’s monochrome disrupting into blue-greens. 

They had only lain in the quiet of the woods for a moment or so when unwelcome voices were heard. Murfrees. They made quick work of them and Arthur appropriated one of their horses, asking him to take the mare back to the camp with him. 

“Where are you going?”

“Meeting someone.”

“Who?”

“Rains Fall.”

Having mounted The Count, he turned to tell her he wouldn’t want her to meet him, but she was galloping away already, out of voice reach.


	31. Methought I was enamour’d of an ass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karen’s POV, sort of…
> 
> Beware who you let in...
> 
> Another spooky chapter! Style gets a bit experimental in the end. It was pretty fun and challenging to write, hope you’ll enjoy! :)

She should have known better. 

Could almost use that as a motto by now. The Karen Jones motto. 

She should have known better than to expect her poor mother to be able to rear nine kids on her own without hitting the bottle. She should have known better than to trust the first boy who claimed he loved her and with whom she eloped to end up marrying her rather than selling her to a brothel. She should have known better than to believe the kindly client who promised he would save her from the brothel to actually mean it and not turn out to be just another pimp who would have sold her on the streets till she rotted from the pox had she not escaped, having taught him a very costly lesson first. She should have known better than to reckon the theatre manager would be interested in her onstage and not offstage talents. She should have known better than to assume her lot in life to be lucky enough for the bunch of people she had finally come to recognise as a family to be able to live a pleasant life. And lastly, she should have known better than to imagine drinking nonstop for an entire day and the following night would have her end up sprawled anywhere but inside a rickety pen in Butcher Creek with a goat’s face staring back at her... 

Exhaling a deep sigh, Karen shooed the animal away and released herself from the mud sticking to her limbs and hair, her skirts and chemise, the latter which remained caked in the stuff anyhow. The sun wasn’t up yet and it was early enough that the odd residents of the village seemed to be asleep. As fast as she could with a hangover, she dragged herself to the wateredge and tottered all the way up to Elysian Pool. 

She had just dipped a few fingers into the cool water when she heard a familiar voice.

“I wouldn’t do that. The water is poisonous.”

Karen removed her fingers and shook them as she nodded in acknowledgement at Arthur who alighted his horse - one she didn’t recognise and which had strange markings all over it - and came and perched down next to her on the moist grass. He took off his jacket and threw it over her by now shivering shoulders.

“You look mighty fine, Miss Karen.”

“You look great yourself, Arthur…”

“Hehe, yeah, had a little bear accident…”

She eyed the shallow claw marks on his forearm before eagerly accepting the cigarette offered her and taking a long drag. 

“Where is the nearest place I can take a bath here, you reckon?” She asked, watching Arthur light another cigarette for himself.

“Annesburg, though I wouldn’t go there after the Cornwall business. You could try one of the cottages nearby?” 

“Hmm…” She pressed her index fingers to her throbbing temples. 

“Want something to eat? Have some biscuits in my satchel.”

She shook her head in the negative and immediately regretted doing so since it made her even dizzier, asking after a second or so: “Were you on a job?”

“In a way... Went to Wapiti to talk to the chief. Wise fellow.”

She could definitely use some wisdom in her life right about now. “What did you talk about?” 

“Many things, his people mostly, showed me how to make some medicine, then I unburdened myself a bit, mentioned my worries about where the gang is heading to, my son…”

“Your son?”

He seemed to be hesitant for a moment, as if he had said something without meaning to. 

“You have a son, Arthur?” She asked again.

“Had a son. Died some years ago.”

“Oh. I didn’t know…”

“Don’t like to talk about him much. Until now apparently!”

“What happened?” She enquired, encouraged by his smile. “How did he…”

She listened to him explain what had happened to the boy and his mother, and nodded in sympathy, sharing her own experience of losing a newborn to an illness when she was younger. They smoked quietly for a while. 

“But you know,” Arthur added, almost in a hushed tone. “I might have another one on the way.” 

“Yeah, I know…”

“What? How...”

“It’s sort of obvious from the way you’ve been behaving,” She said, and then decided to be more truthful. “Well, I heard from Mary-Beth, who heard from Tilly, who heard from Jack, who had overheard John telling Abigail.”

“Damn… How does John even know!? When Abigail was pregnant, he kept going on about how she was just bloated from eating too much!”

“Well, we wondered the same, Mary-Beth, Tilly and I, so we convinced Javier to quiz John, and he said Dutch had told him apparently.”

Arthur’s eyes grew even wider, the cigarette dangling at the corner of his half-opened mouth. 

“We don’t know how Dutch knows though. Thought you told him?”

“No…” Arthur shook his head, still looking mildly bewildered. “So I take it the others don’t know?”

“Oh they all know. Uncle told them. Well, he told Pearson and the Reverend, so my guess is by now everyone knows.” 

He remained silent, chewing on his lower lip. 

“Do you know whose it is?”

“No.”

“You wanna keep it?” She placed a hand on Arthur’s knee. “Uncle’s friend Lillian, the fancy woman from Saint Denis, she knows someone who can help, if you don’t.” 

“Maybe, not sure, though I’m leaning towards wanting to keep it. I didn’t, at first. Preferred it even if… Anyway, after speaking with Rains Fall, Eagle Flies’s father, I feel differently about it now. He said instead of seeing it as another chance for failure, I can see it as being given a chance to redeem myself, in a way. What do you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Arthur… Don’t know if I believe in redemption, or that what happened to the boy was your fault to begin with. But if it helps you to believe in it, then why not?”

“Interesting response...” He smiled, a little more deeply this time.

She smiled in return. “Well, I’m an interesting gal!”

“That you are.” His smile grew wider, adding after a few puffs: “Thanks for the talk, Karen.”

“Anytime, Arthur.” Karen grinned, feeling her mood lifting already. “Can I touch it?”

He looked at his belly when she gestured towards it. “There is nothing visible yet, but okay...”

Well, it was just a tiny bump, and it occurred to her how thin he had gotten. She had heard of women who lost weight during their first months of pregnancy, but wasn’t sure if Arthur’s condition was particularly healthy… Then again, who was she to give him advice on personal wellbeing?

“So, have you chosen a name yet?” She asked, letting her gaze trace the rays of sun softly touching the misty surface of the toxic lake. 

“Hah, no! Took me nigh two months to come up with a name for the mare. Can’t even imagine how long it’ll take me to think of two.”

“Well, you’ve got time…” She nodded firmly and suddenly remembered a much happier outing, hence asking: “By the way, what’s your horse’s name?”

“You don’t know? Thought you did, it’s-”

At that very point they were rudely interrupted by a gaggle of Murphrees who claimed that they had warned them to leave the area. They used to be frightening at first, Karen reckoned, but their appearance had become so frequent that it would be strange if there was no encounter with them whenever they headed out to purchase supplies. After putting them down, Arthur headed back to the camp, having given her instructions about where to find an apparently very recently abandoned cottage he had been using at times as a solitary refuge. 

It turned out to be a rather nice cottage, cosy even, clearly neglected but not filthy. First thing she did was light a fire. Then she drew some water from a nearby well, heated the water, dragged in a tub and cleaned it before using it as a makeshift bath. Ahhhh… The lovely feeling of submerging her body in a bath was among her favourite sensations. Having washed herself clean, she washed her clothes and curled in front of the fireplace in an old but warm blanket, sipping a bottle of ‘pirate rum’ she had discovered in one of the cupboards while snacking on cans of warmed-up corned beef, peas and later strawberries, murmuring a song she had recently learned.

_To lie and faint within your silken bosom… Or would I were a little burnish’d apple… Your robe of lawn and your hair of spun gold…_

She hardly detected the quick passage of time, and it was soon evening, and even sooner night. It felt so nice and comfortable in the cottage that she decided to stay there instead of returning to the camp and all the divisional aggression and the constant bickering, preferring instead the gentle crackling of firewood, nearly as she fell asleep… Until, that is, she noticed a great measure of fog gathering around her, and turning her head saw it pouring out of the tub she had used as a bath. The eerie fog was followed by the loudest, most foreign sound she had ever heard in her entire life.

She couldn’t even describe it. Lacked the proper words. Only that is was LOUD. So fucking loud that she thought for a moment she had died and gone to hell and her punishment was torture till deafness for not listening to all the warnings she had given herself throughout the years… And to make things better, abruptly from among the fog and the infernal noise a devil appeared, dancing… She had almost sworn off liquor when she suddenly recognised the devil. It was _him_ alright, but with horns and a pointy tail, naked and transparent. 

“Sean MacGuire…?”

“The one and only! Did you miss me, bae?”

“Bae?” She asked confusedly, standing up on shaking legs and moving towards him. “What… You’re alive!?”

“Sadly no! Just put your hand through me and see!” 

She reached out a hand and it went right through his frame, making him squirm and giggle.

“Can’t believe it…” Her jaw dropped open and it took her awhile to gather herself. “What was that loud sound?”

“Dropkick Murphys!” Demon Sean grinned and she noticed he had sharp canines. “They’re the best, I tell you! My favourite band of the moment.”

“Band?” She had to sit back down again as her knees gave in.

“Yeah, sort of like brass bands, only much better! Or cooler, as they say down there in Hell. In fact-”

“Hell!? How come you’re in Hell?” She wanted to yell but instead a squeaky voice came out just as she reminded herself that he was in a devil get up after all...

“Ahhh, girl, it warms me heart you’re surprised! But yeah, was in the waiting room to have my case decided, but then this fellow looked at me funny like and I asked him what his problem was and he said ‘I got no problems with ye’, but then kept glaring and so I ask him again ‘what’s yer problem fellow?’, and he said he didn’t like the colour of my hair and I got mighty mad and swung a punch at him and one thing led to another and the whole room was up in a brawl and when them angels came to see what was going on all them basterds pointed at me and so they kicked me _wooooosh_ right down to Hell! Turns out it was the best thing ever! They have the best music in Hell, you believe me, and the best whiskey too, and the best-”

“There is music in Hell?” She still couldn’t believe what she was hearing, or saying, or seeing.

“Yep.” Sean stepped out of the tub and sat on the floor next to her. She could vaguely see the fire burning behind him through the outline of his body. “Celtic punk is the best, of course, love them Murphys, but also The Progues, and you’d like this one, Flogging Molly! Hahaha! You’d probably like The Dubliners better though, soft girl that you are, loving ballads and such. The gang members, I mean _band_ members, aren’t born yet though. But imagine being alive when they are! We got the short end of the stick, love.”

Well it was him alright, probably. Who else could talk so much in so little time… She didn’t even understand half the things he was spouting and doubted it had anything to do with the pirate brew. 

“Anyway, I came here to tell you, you must aim for Hell. They’ve got the best people there, yours truly included, of course.” He chuckled and waggled his eyebrows. “Here, I’ve prepared a list for you, of all the sins or crimes you’ll need to commit, or equivalents, if you don’t feel like killing folk, for example, to come to the exact place where I am. And don’t worry, it’s a foolproof list.”

“Not if you made it yourself, it’s not,” She raised both eyebrows while poking curious fingers through him.

“But I didn’t! I asked a couple of bankers to do it for me, there are loads of them down there.” 

She eyed the longish, semi-transparent list, wondering how on earth, or rather Hell, some actions were equivalents of the other...

“Sean,” She said at length, trying to look into his eyes and not through them. “I don’t love you enough to want to go to Hell with you.”

“Oh babe, not this again! I know you do, heard you singing sadly after I went. Besides, it’s not for my sake I’m asking, it’s for your own! Trust me, it’s much better than Heaven.”

“How would you know!?”

“Cause I’ve been! Hosea invited us, with Mac and Davey, they’re in a bad place now, you don’t want to go there… So, we went there on a holiday and it’s dull, girl! He put on this show and I had to play this guy called Bottom! Can you even imagine!? They even made me wear a donkey’s head, then kept complaining why I was making an arse of myself… Yeah, yeah, real funny!”

She stopped laughing to take a breath. “Well, the old man got that one right… How are they?”

“Fine! They’ve got this big house by the sea, but as I said, boring… Anyway, trust me, you wouldn’t want to live there permanently, and if you’re going to Hell, best you know someone there already, helps a lot, believe me I know from experience. I’ll make sure I’ll learn everything I can by the time you arrive. But damn, you look fine, Miss Jones… I missed the sight of ye.”

She never thought she’d blush from being complimented by a ghost, but her cheeks grew warm and she wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, almost anticipating the suggestion that came next. 

“So, how about we have a little go at it?” He asked, uncharastically shy all of a sudden, playing with the pointy tip of his tail.

Oh, he looked so adorable! “You weren’t even that good when you had a body, Sean…” Karen teased, trying and failing to pinch his horns which had become tiny for some reason.

“Ouch! That hurts, girl. Really hurts, and I’ve been through torments of Hell…”

“So there _is_ torment?”

“Sure, but it’s more like what you’ll get in a bdsm club? You’ll grow to like it, depends on the ‘punisher’ though, some are rubbish, some better...”

“What’s a _beady essem_ club?”

“You know, like those brothels where men go to get spanked by pretty women? Only it’s not pretty women who’re doing the whipping, mostly ugly demons… But, as I said, it’s okay once you get used to it. And there is variety in the punishments too, and they’re not even that organised so you can skip them if you’re lucky, or bribe them.”

“Right...”

“There are about twenty-four clubs that I know of, some of them are real extreme! Never been myself, but heard stories, unsavoury ones too. Which is why I gave you the list. And funny thing is they weren’t even created by the devils themselves. They’re too lazy, see, so just pilfered the notion from this Italian fellow called Daunted or…”

By then, Karen’s head was spinning from being subjected to so much irelevant information, and for fear that Sean might keep going on, she suggested they move on to the sex already. 

“So, how do we do this?” She asked tentatively, lying on the floor next to the fireplace. 

Sean reclined next to her, thought for a moment. “Uh…” Then a moment longer.

“You don’t know, do you, you numbskull...”

“Well, I could possess you and then you could frig yourself?”

“What, no! Shit, don’t even wanna think about it, give me the creeps…”

“Ha, hadn’t pegged you as a coward, Karen Jones!” 

“How would it even work?” She asked, curious but also highly suspicious. “How do I even know you’re Sean and not some devil who’s got all this information out of him by interrogation and is here to possess me, huh?”

“I see you’re one of them doubters…” 

When she heard the words spoken in a familiar tone, she couldn’t help but laugh. It was when he laughed also that she realised her doubts had been unfounded. They could have tortured Sean to get information from him, but surely the denizens of Hell wouldn’t have been kind enough to make him laugh to then copy his laughter? Still, she thought she’d probe him a bit for the sake of it.

“How is it that Hosea never came to visit, or the others?”

“Maybe they did, who knows… The celestial ones don’t get to talk to mortals. Only the fiendish ones can, and not all, you’d have to have some unfinished business, but I have good connections so I convinced them to let me come. Got these horns and the tail in the bargain too, you like ‘em?”

“Uhuh, looks like you got a bit of enhancement down there as well, too bad it’s non-material... So how can you possess me? It’s not permanent, right?”

Sean explained the process and Karen listened with increasingly narrowed eyes. It seemed to be complicated but not undoable, and she suspected he must have thought of this beforehand to have the knowledge, but then he said he had been forced to attend some demonology classes as punishment for throwing fire bottles into the ninth circle.

“I tell you, it was the worst torment I’ve been through…” Sean explained, only in Karen’s voice, seeing as now they were merged. “Woah! Amazing, we did it!”

If it felt weird enough to have him/her speak for her/him, the whole touching experience was even more overwhelming. Sometimes it felt like she/he was touching her/himself, sometimes it felt like someone else was caressing her/him, the entire experience alien, though not in an unpleasant manner, as if her/his hands had been instilled with a different set of directions; she/he had never touched her/himself so kindly before, kissed her/his wrists with such affection.

Gentle hands, curious fingertips, glided over skin, smoothing the goosebumps, brushing over receptive mounds of breasts, peaked nipples, teasing, before shifting the exploration downwards into moist domains, where they lingered, self-knowledge mingled with passion to provoke unknown pleasures. 

_I love you, I love you…_

She/he kept thinking to her/himself, smiling in embarrassment, laughing in joy as the inner side of sensitive thighs were tickled, gasping in delight when digits dipped in, and oh, she/he had never felt so happy to be in her/his skin, to feel her/himself from another’s attentive, forgiving, desiring perspective. 

_You’ve got better at this…_

She/he sighed, arching her/his back to feel her/his orgasm approaching, slowly, assuredly. 

_Cause I can sense what you like. Let me hear your voice…_

So the moans and mewls grew louder, urgent, unashamed, matching the tempo of the fingers’ movements. Almost there now. 

_Can you feel it?_

_Yeah, girl, I can feel it!_

And oh, what a glorious feeling, pleasure mutually sensed. 

Exhausted and emotionally overcome, she/he stretched on the blanket, panting as the firelight gilded various sweat drops on her/his skin. All was peaceful until she/he realised he/she hadn’t quite learned how to undo the possession, so that they were stuck together for the time being. Well, figures. Should have known better than to drink some shifty pirate rum...

_Should have known better than to trust Sean MacGuire…_

_Hey, I can hear that!_

_Good!_


	32. Du bist der Lenz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur’s POV.
> 
> Morston fluff n’ smut. That’s it.
> 
> Warning: contains some twincest roleplay.

“Shhh…”

“What?”

“Think I heard something… Was nothing, never mind.”

A stretch of silence.

“You should leave.”

“Now? That’s too mean, Morgan, even for you...”

“No, not now…”

Arthur wrapped the arm draped over John’s torso tighter around his slowly rising and falling chest, pressing himself closer to his side, sighing in contentment to feel the other’s arm securing about his waist, naked as they lay on a bedroll in the former train station building. It shouldn’t have happened, he thought, gently as he slid his fingertips from Marston’s side, over his ribs, to his forehead to brush away rogue moist strands black as secrets whispered in the dark. He had promised himself he would stay away, intimately, but hadn’t counted on the fact that he would suddenly come to learn while being alone together that he had missed him, missed this, and how powerless he would be in resisting the urge to hug him back when, having blown up the bridge, John pulled him into his embrace with no prior warning, in the middle of an argument:

“It’s mine,” Marston had insisted.

“How do you know?” Arthur had demanded, piqued.

“I know it is cause I want it to be.” 

Marston had persisted in the same nonsensical line of reasoning about his potential paternity of the child, making Arthur even more frustrated than before, until his frustration was overcome by a mixture of wonderment and woe when John proudly pointed out that, if a boy, the child might look exactly like him, at which point Arthur had realised he may have to raise another Marston all over again… And, as if that thought hadn’t been unsettling enough, John had proceeded to suggest all the names he had come up with, notable among them Weena, Griffin and Prendick, as well as other names taken from H. G. Wells stories, that author being the only one whose works Marston had ever been interested in reading - turns out Abigail was the one who had named John Jr (Jack). Since Arthur had never read any of the books said characters hailed from, he was subsequently subjected to a hasty and overexcited description of strange plots and worlds, which were rather fascinating, and by the time they’d got to _The Island of Dr Moreau_ and its various ‘beast folk’, the pair of them had forgot all about name choosing and were instead comparing various gang members to animal hybrids, which was fun until Arthur compared John to a dog-cat, with Marston protesting that he was nothing short of a wolf-panther, and Arthur pointing out that panthers weren’t afraid of water... So Marston had tried to prove his wolfish abilities through means other than conversational, that is, by suddenly pouncing Arthur, nipping and clawing playfully, until he was abruptly pulled into his tight embrace and stared at like they were the only people left on earth. Somehow from there they ended up in the isolated building and made love. 

It felt so peaceful now, lying next to John, head resting safely on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, lazy limbs intertwined, Marston’s fingers gliding through his hair, his other hand calm on his hip. With a bit of effort, Arthur shifted so he could press his lips to John’s, letting his tongue enter the other’s mouth and explore the outline of his teeth, memorising every jagged point and chip, as if for the last time. It could be, who knew, he reckoned, as he withdrew slightly to look into his eyes. He could never quite decide what their colour was. Black, green, brown, grey, or a mixture of these, or a nameless colour he was free to choose a name for.

“What are you looking at?”

He tipped forward and kissed him in response, sliding the palm of his hand along the warm beating body beside him. Handsome, scarred body. 

“I won’t leave without you, Arthur,” John spoke once the kiss was broken. “I’ve told Abigail the same and she agrees. If we end up leaving, you’re coming with us.”

“Haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet, Marston.” 

“You don’t have to stay with us forever. Till the baby is born, at least. We’ll find a way for you to turn back once they’ve stopped looking for us.”

Arthur sighed and let his head drop on John’s shoulder, busying himself by softly stroking John’s facial scars, each furrow attended to carefully. It was a tempting prospect. He didn’t see himself as the sort who could settle down in one place for long, but for a year, sure. They could move to a state they’d never been to, rent a house, find jobs... 

“I’ll work hard,” John continued in the meanwhile. “Abigail wants a proper house, going to build her one, we can all live there.”

The selfish thought even crept into his mind that once the babe was born, he could leave it with Abigail and John when he roamed about, until the child was older when he could possibly take it with him, which probably wouldn’t be the best lifestyle, and anyway all of this sounded too unreal for him to give it much thought…

“I’ll take care of you,” John whispered, kissing his temple. “I’ll be kind to you, Arthur, more than you are to yourself.”

Their eyes met. He felt happy, not because of what he was hearing, but because Marston sounded so unlike himself, seemed to have grown - though Arthur still doubted Abigail would be entirely happy with the suggested arrangement. As if reading his mind, the man resumed.

“When Jack was taken, and later when I was in prison, I had time to think about many things, what’s really important to me... I don’t think I’ll ever make a good husband for Abigail or a good rancher or even a good honest person, but I’d like to try for Jack’s sake. My hope is, if this last job goes well, we’ll have some money, then wait till everyone has calmed down to tell them our plan.”

“We don’t even know what this last job is,” Arthur spoke in a somewhat sullen tone before forcing a bit of light-heartedness into his diction. “Let’s hope for that though. Stay vigilant, all the same, and ready to act if things go differently.” 

“And you? When are you going to make up your mind?”

Arthur exhaled a deep sigh, not knowing how to answer. There were so many things to consider. So much he didn’t know anymore, what with the illusion of the perfect outlaw life distorting rapidly through every loss of life and confidence, and with it the reciprocal sense of worth they had provided for each other. Even now, twenty years on, he distinctly remembered- But, no, he would not think about that now… So he kissed John again, and again, until both their lips were swollen and red, till he was keening and moaning underneath him, which he responded to with little love noises, pinching the boy’s nipples, rubbing his thigh idly along his hardening shaft, pre-cum sticking to both their bellies.

“I want to fuck you.”

“Yeah, me too, and Johnny’s always at your command...”

“Not like that... I want to be inside you, John. I want to hold you, protect you, save you…”

He wasn’t even sure what he was saying anymore, transported by the joy of the moment as he peppered Marston’s face, throat and chest with pecks, soft yet hungry, feeling the boy’s pulse growing faster with each homage, marvelling at how pale he looked in a certain light, how open, accepting, untroubled, like an unaccompanied sculpture perfect unto himself, unlike...

“Tell me,” Arthur smirked, quickly shaking certain thoughts away as he reached to grasp John’s cock. “Why didn’t we ever fuck before, hmm? Why did you have to be such a savage nuisance? If you’d been a little nicer, boy, like you are now, so docile and needy… Might have taken you back then, made you mine...”

“Still am trouble,” John grinned, rolling them suddenly so he was on top, moving to bite then suck on his nipples. “Feral as it comes… Mhmph…”

Arthur gasped to feel the delicious tingling his body was subjected to under John’s attention, to sense the man’s calloused hands wandering all over, encasing, grip sometimes bruisingly fast even as his tongue invaded his mouth, deeply, in a slow study of novel love-twists, passion plays. His left hand clutched at the dark tresses and tugged, while the other hand clasped the man’s buttocks, drawing him closer, fighting the urge to spread his thighs open and beg him to please please please… But mean as he was, Arthur pretended a certain bite had hurt much more than it had to have a guilt-ridden John pull back enough to allow him to roll the boy onto his back so that he was on top again, grinning. Swiftly, he took hold of his prick again, using the momentum gained from Marston’s pleasure-fuelled surrender to push his thighs open, positioning himself between them, cooing softly, hush, hush, a kiss on each cheek, whispers promising false nothings, eternal everythings... 

“If you want to be inside me,” John panted, palming his breasts with one hand, the other caressing his thigh. “You can… Abigail… She does this thing, with her fingers…”

“Does she now?” Arthur growled, cursing fate for taking away his cock and making him watch a flushed and flustered Marston.

“Yeah, feels good…” The boy’s voice hitched when he ran his thumb across the slit above the sensitive head. “Want it now…”

Arthur just smiled for a moment, distracted by the beauty of him. _My outlaw friend. My brother. My_ … For fear of losing his mind, he unlocked his gaze from John’s and pushed the boy’s thighs further apart, settling more comfortably as he gingerly began playing with his cock with temperamental manual glides that were too light and brief to provide any lasting gratification.

“You’re still a spoiled brat, ain’t you...” He lifted his eyebrows without looking up, bending to kiss the boy’s knees, then the inner side of his thighs, licking and savouring his taste. “Who else has been fucking you?”

“Javier…” Marston confessed, gasping when Arthur bit his thigh. 

Arthur chuckled wickedly, biting the other inner thigh as well none too gently, for symmetry’s sake, then kissing both sides. “You liked it, huh?”

“Yeah, loved it…” 

“How was he?” He gripped the base of Marston’s shaft tighter, almost punishingly so. “Rough or gentle?”

“Gentle…”

“If it were me, the old me,” He leaned forward and kissed the now profusely leaking head. “How would you have liked it?”

“Mmm… rough…”

Arthur bit his lip, the thought of all the possibilities making him even wetter than he already was. “Yeah?”

“Yeah…” 

“Wait here a moment.”

He let go of the shaft and crawled towards their effects, fishing out a cylinder of gun oil before returning. He poured some oil on his fingers and circled them around Marston’s entrance, already twitching in anticipation, wanton, wanting, winking, mmmm, and let them go one more round, and another, and another, watching the changes in John’s facial expressions as he leisurely and loosely palmed his erection with the other hand. 

“Arthur…”

“Shhh...” He bent and kissed John on his moist, bitten lips, and changed his mind just as he was about to insert two fingers in simultaneously, pushing in the gun oil cylinder instead, watching him tense, then relax, then tense again and so on as he gently moved the object in and out. “You’re so pretty, John…”

He pushed the thumb of his other hand into John’s mouth to suck on for a while, his cock now neglected, then removed it from his mouth with a pop and let it slide downward, circling erect nipples, which he kissed afterwards, one after the other. Licked, one after the other. John’s mewls doing things to him when he increased the pace of the other hand and eventually shifted his attention away from his chest again to take the head of his cock into his mouth, sucking softly, teasing the underside with a mock-timid tongue. At the same time, he tipped the outside end of the cylinder downwards so that the inside end was pressing against the boy’s prostate, milking whorish moans from his mouth and a stream of pre-cum from his almost-bursting cock, his own need growing louder every second. Damn, if only he had another hand… 

Sensing Marston approaching his climax, Arthur removed his mouth from the shaft and began quickly jacking him off, absorbed by the sight of his writhing, arching frame, beloved and naked, and oh so trusting, in spite of the scars… Jets of cum flew from John’s cock and landed on his chest and stomach, panting and grunting as he fell back upon the bedroll. Arthur rubbed some of the cum into his skin and fed the leftovers to him in scoops gathered on his thumb, stroking his trembling thighs with his other hand. He then lay down next to him, cuddling him affectionately as their mouths met in an idle half-kiss, until Marston, having caught his breath, flipped Arthur onto his back.

“My turn…”

Settling between Arthur’s splayed thighs, without any preamble John fell to licking all over his sex, with no particular direction, haphazardly, so Arthur couldn’t expect what was coming and each kiss and nip and lick was a delightful surprise that sent pleasure-jolts through his frame. He grasped for John’s hair when the other pressed two fingers inside him, rough and hot and eager, fucking them into him as he kissed and sucked on his clit. 

“John, fuck, hhhmn…”

“Good girl, my girl…”

He would have smacked the son of a bitch for using the same words - in the same tone - that Arthur called his horse, had he not been so pleasure-lost, high-pitched moans growing louder when he felt Marston’s earlier deposit leaking out from in-between his fingers. Just as he was about to acquire the delicious release, however, John pulled out, eliciting first a cry of disappointment, then of shock, when Marston’s already hardened length entered his cunt, pushing in to the hilt, staying, as he held him in his embrace once more and began fucking him gently. Arthur clung to John’s shoulders, wrapped his legs around his hips, whispered something into his ear and felt John smiling, slowing down even more as he claimed his mouth in a kiss, silken-soft and unhurried.

“Pretend you’re my brother…” 

“Your brother?” John’s searching gaze fixed onto his. “You’re into that shit? That’s-”

“Filthy, I know… I like it.”

“Older or younger?”

“Twins,” He replied after a space of contemplation. “I’m the older twin.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” John whisper-kissed in his ear as he began moving again. 

“Don’t be a prude now, John,” Arthur raked his fingers across his back, kissed the side of his neck. “I-”

“What if he sees?” 

A pause, he looked at Marston, smile widening.

“What if Pa finds out?” John asked again, thrusts still shallow but becoming longer. “He’d kill me if he saw…”

“He’d kill us both…” Arthur sighed, pulling John closer, if such a thing was even possible. “But I want it, bad enough…”

“Bad enough, yeah…” John repeated, not much thought left in him now as he drove in harder and faster. “Won’t stop even if he walks in now…”

“Bet you want to get caught...” Arthur spoke with the remnant of focus he had left even as his orgasm hit him. “Bet you… ahhh...”

He was kissed, just as rapture threatened to pull him away, and it felt so strange to be absent in sheer bliss but also be there, to feel John, his presence, his pleasure, pouring inside him, surrounding him. Arthur kissed him back, bit his lips, licked them better, both holding their breaths for a final moment before letting go. 

“If we don’t get through this alive,” Arthur mumbled, eyelids growing heavy as he curled around John. “Promise we’ll meet again, in another time…”

“Sure…” John chuckled sleepily. 

Arthur yawned. “Next time, I promise, it will…”

It was late afternoon when they woke up. Arthur sent John ahead, himself needing some time to reflect, write a few letters, replenish his food supply and eat something. By the time he got back to the camp, it was past midnight.

Hitching his horse to a tree a bit further away from the rest, Arthur noticed a tiny flicker of orange light at a small distance, followed by a plume of smoke, and when the wind unveiled the moon briefly, a pair of eyes staring back at him. He could still feel the weight of the gaze on himself when darkness returned, and so he stood there, gazing back. He should go and talk to him. He knew that, but also knew what he wanted from him. Trust. Blind trust. He couldn’t give him that, loved him too much not to question his actions. Had always been like that, though in the past few months the doubt had grown in proportion to the care. He cared for him, like Hosea had, seeing him as the human that he was, flaws and all, and the potential he had to be much, much better, because he had seen him so. Unless to care for someone was something else entirely and all these years he had been deluding himself. He couldn’t even tell anymore… So he disengaged and left for his tent. Hoping against hope that he might come to him. Stop him. He didn’t. That was that then. One last job and then-

“Where are your manners?” 

A steel grip on his arm. He was slowly spun around. 

“Evenin’...”

The cigar was tossed away when he stepped closer. So close Arthur had to fight back the instinct to step back. Then he was bending over him, sniffing, his hair, his throat, his skin through the collar he ripped open. When he withdrew, the look in his eyes was unreadable. Arthur didn’t have to look back to see where he next levelled his gaze. There was only one person sitting next to the central campfire, towards which he walked once his arm was released without any further verbal exchange. He stood next to Marston and tucked a few strands of ink-coloured hair behind the boy’s ear before heading off to his own cot to get some rest.


	33. E la fuggevol, fuggevol ora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dutch’s POV.
> 
> Dutch takes Arthur and Sadie drinking after Colm is hanged... 
> 
> Certain parts of this chapter were inspired by a certain song ;)

About ten years ago, when Dutch was reading _The Count of Monte Cristo_ for the first time, he had wondered how it would feel like to have one’s enemies taken out like the protagonist of the novel had, one by one. Now he knew. It felt fine. It felt gloriously fine, in fact. Not that he had never had enemies he had taken revenge on before, but none of them had been such intimidating figures as Angelo Bronte, _un_ … Leviticus Cornwall, _deux_ … And last but not least, Colm O’Driscoll, _trois_... Ahhhhh, the satisfaction... 

Though, to be perfectly honest, he felt somewhat forlorn to see Colm gone. They had been at each other’s throats for so long that he felt a bit incomplete without him. He had never liked Colm, not even when they used to work together, but there was something sentimental about watching an opponent of one’s own ilk go down, quite unlike witnessing the demise of a rotten capitalist, for instance. He blamed all these sentiments on the drink, of course. Dutch didn’t usually drink to the point of inebriation, but when he did, it calmed him. Made him a bit melancholic even, though Hosea tended to call it depressed, but what did he know? Or had, for that matter... 

“ _Un_ , _deux_ , _trois_...” He unfolded three fingers and held them before his drinking companions. “We did it.” 

“Hear, hear!” Arthur jumped out of her hazy stupor and raised a shot of brandy. “A toast to Anne de… what’s the name again?” 

“I meant one, two, three.”

She shrugged and clinked her glass so hard against Dutch’s that they both cracked and the brandy poured all over the round wooden table, temporarily waking up Mrs Adler. 

“Shit, look Dutch, it broke! Hahaha...”

Goddamnit, she was a lousy drunk! Angry and sad and silly and loud. All bleary-eyed and crimson-cheeked and clingy and pretty… He couldn’t resist dragging her chair next to him with his foot, pulling her to sit on his lap to kiss her on the cheeks and maybe some more on the- 

“One, two, three… One, two, three…” She kept repeating for some reason. “Like a waltz? Come on, let’s dance, Dutch!”

“Can you even stand?” He chuckled, but allowed himself to be pulled up and even held in the traditionally female position as Arthur attempted to move them in waltz steps to the jig being played on the piano - by an admittedly talented guy - in the corner of the green-hued tavern. “Careful…”

The near crash into a table didn’t hamper Arthur’s enthusiasm, though the dance had to come to an end when they fell to the floor once Arthur tried to perform a dip and couldn’t quite manage to support his weight. Usually he would have gotten embarrassed or angry, but now, for some reason, Dutch couldn’t stop laughing. Only to be forced into silence when Arthur abruptly started kissing him, rubbing herself against him, pushing the lapels of his uniform apart in an unsuccessful attempt to open it, then letting go midway to unfasten his belt, at which point he lost control himself, flipped them over with a low growl and set to rip open Arthur’s uniform. 

“Excuse me, officer,” The bartender interrupted their frolics. “We’ve got room, for you and your boy, if you so-”

“AIN’T A BOY!” Arthur hollered. “A man! I’m a…”

“Okay, fellow, tell me about this room of yours,” Dutch removed himself from the ground and hauled a wobbly Arthur up to her feet, then picked up his hat which had rolled under a table. Arthur’s own policeman hat had long been lost.

“It’s real nice, simple but nice,” The man explained. “Ask the lady, she’s been there before. They’ve been together, in fact.” 

Hmm… Dutch observed the man gesturing towards first Mrs Adler - who was now doubled over the table, snoring, face hidden beneath her large hat - and then Arthur, and instantly made up his mind. They left Sadie where she was and followed the bartender to said room, not terribly refined, but seemed clean enough, to his drunken regard at least, god knows what he’d think about it in the morning…

“Hey Dutch, how come you get to be the officer, huh? And I get to be a subordinate policeman?”

“Cause I look the part better, son,” He clarified, switching on a green-shaded lamp standing on the nightstand. 

Dutch looked on with amusement as Arthur snatched his officer’s hat and placed it on her own head, slowly as he unbuttoned his uniform and sat himself down on the bed with a sigh. The hat looked good on her, despite what he had just said. 

“Hey, bad man, you’re under arrest!” 

He never managed not to be astonished at how quick Arthur was at the draw. Now, staring back at his own Schofield revolver pointed in his direction, he felt equally impressed, maybe more so, considering how tipsy she was. 

“Careful, it’s loaded…”

She cocked the hammer, pressed the barrel to his chest. “On charge of being criminally good-looking.” She was drunk alright, though her expression suddenly waxed serious, frowning as she added: “You’ve been real wicked recently, Dutch. Wonder sometimes what I’m gonna do with you…”

He wasn’t given time to respond. Grinning like some drunken devil, she came closer and placed her knee on his crotch, grinding, her gun-free hand resting on his shoulder as she bent forward and kissed him on his brow, his left cheek, his left ear, whispering a ‘bang bang!’ before withdrawing and standing back, grin gone but gaze mischievous.

“Leave the hat on,” He commanded, voice low as a hum of pleasure rumbled through his chest. “Take the rest off.”

He lit a cigarette while watching her slip the gun back into his gun-belt, then unbuckle her own, letting it fall to the floor. A gratified grin spread across his face when she proceeded to remove her uniform, revealing the absence of a shirt underneath. Well, to be fair, the city was dreadfully hot even at night, nearing the end of summer. He removed his own gun-belt while closely observing her shrugging out of the suspenders, pulling off the boots and the trousers, then peeling away the union suit and the socks - hat still on. _Obedient boy_...

“That bartender fellow said you two were here before,” He remarked casually, motioning for her to come closer. “When?”

She took her time to approach and straddle his lap. “Before we went to save John.”

“Why did you need a room?” He let one hand rest on her ass, waiting for a self-punishing moment or so before beginning to massage the delectably firm cheek leisurely as he let his eyes take in the sight of her lovely breasts, blowing cigarette smoke out of the side of his mouth so it wouldn’t cloud his vision even for a second. 

Arthur smirked and took his cigarette, took a puff before returning it to his lips. “Why do you think?” 

“Let me guess,” He hummed, closing his eyes briefly to concentrate on the charming sensation of her hand palming his clothed half-erect length. “You needed the room to discuss your plan privately?”

“Yeah, and guess what…” She sighed when he ran his thumb across her nipples and pinched one randomly. “It was a _great_ plan. Much better than yours ever are...”

“Was it now?” He tried to remain composed and not push against her increasingly solicitous hand like some young buck. “Care to share the particulars?”

“Nah…” She threw the cigarette away and shoved his uniform off his shoulders, cast it on the floor, began pulling and playing with his suspenders. “Just know, Mister Van der Linde, you had a role in it…”

“In what capacity?” He hissed when the hand that had left this cock suddenly returned to its previous position and gave his aching member a hard squeeze; a move which he acknowledged by letting his hand slide upwards from her breast to the nape of her neck, drawing her into a rough kiss, all bites and bruises. “Inspirational?”

“Sort of, someone pretended to be you…” She licked her lips.

He licked his. “And the other?”

“Arthur Morgan, strapping young lad of fifteen, angelic and pure, primed to be corrupted by a villainous dark-haired felon.”

_Fuck_... Well, there wouldn’t be any further malfunctions tonight, Dutch noted as he tried to picture the delicious scene described by Arthur while still maintaining full control, a challenge surely, added to the fact that he had to pretend he didn’t mind when she opened his trousers and pulled out his cock, the direct contact of her fingers gliding along the throbbing shaft and the veins eliciting a low growl from the bottom of his chest, even as she bit his neck hard, following the gesture by tiny bites all over his collarbones, having ripped his shirt and union suit open. Torture, torture, and delight; how it was with them.

“Not so pure, as far as I remember… Nearly shanked me.” He slipped the hand cupping her ass to her core from behind to see if she was wet, and, hmm, yes, she was, very much so. “More like a dirty little stray puss, hungry for attention and affection…” He pushed one finger inside, biting in a grunt to feel her suck and bite his nipples. “Have to suck somewhere else if you’re thirsty, angel…”

She shook her head no and whispered what she wanted in his ear, shyly. 

“As she wishes,” Dutched chuckled, lifted Arthur by the hips to slip her onto his cock, holding his breath as her possessive warmth surrounded him. 

No more talking while they fucked, slowly and almost lovingly, if that word could be ascribed to them. The seated position allowed for many kisses to be idly exchanged. He took his time caressing her all over her darling body, finally permitting the fingers of one hand to curl loosely around her throat, the other hand attending to her pleasure nub with unhurried dedication, like they had all the time in the world, like they were unpursued, free. Her moans were soft on his ears, her sighs even softer on his lips, and the damp skin of her thighs softer still as she slid up and down, _larghetto con moto_ … With equal softness he changed their position, without pulling out, so they were lying on the bed as he continued thrusting, _a piacere_... 

He hooked an arm underneath her knee, drawing it up to provide himself with better access as he lay on top of her without pressing down, groaning in pleasure to feel her wrap the other leg around his hip, pulling herself up into his thrusts, her sex clenching around his length tightly, distractingly, though not as distracting as the green of her eyes, enhanced by the lamp’s light, half-lidded as they looked up to him, vicious and tender, doubting and trusting. 

“Harder…” She demanded. 

“Don’t want to hurt you,” He responded, kissing her eyelids.

She laughed. “How much more can you hurt me, Dutch?”

He frowned. “Much, much more, Arthur…” 

And kissed her, kissed her, kissed her, faster as his speed mounted into near savagery, but still careful, careful, until triggered by her peak and the sting of her fingernails breaking the skin of his back where they had crept to stealthily, he lost it. His grunts as he climaxed must have been heard by neighbouring rooms, but he couldn’t care less, determined as he was to allow himself at least this one moment to be liberated from all caution, free to fill her emptiness and let her fill his. 

“Was going to kill him, with my own hands...” He muttered as he fucked her slowly while they rode out their high. “After what he did to you... But I think now it was much better, what happened to him, all the faces looking at him, their hatred…”

Once they had stilled, he moved downwards to her belly, smoothing the skin so the bump showed better, licking then kissing it several times. 

“I don’t care if it’s his, or anyone’s, I’ll raise it as my own.”

“How did you know?” She stroked his head lazily. “Don’t recall ever telling you…”

“I know everything,” He smiled, planting a peck on her belly button before moving up. “Thought you knew that by now, Arthur.”

She just yawned in response and curled up against him. He shifted their position so they were lying on their sides with his arm stretched under her head as he held her from behind. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, calming and familiar, all hers - and John-free, thank god. They stayed like that for a while and he had nearly fallen asleep, finally, after many sleepless nights, when she spoke.

“Dutch…”

“Hmmm…”

“So glad you ain’t bald…”

_What the..._ He opened his eyes and lifted his head to peer at Arthur who had hers closed still. 

“Dreamt some time ago you’d gone bald, that your hair was a wig…”

“You have the most peculiar dreams, Arthur…”

“More like a nightmare… Don’t think I’d admire you as much if you were bald...”

“What a comforting thought…” He laughed low, asking after a bit out of mere curiosity: “So, you’re saying, if I shaved my hair you’ll leave the gang?”

“Probably, yeah…” She was grinning, still tipsy, hopefully. “Don’t take it bad though, sure it’ll grow back, then I’ll come back…”

“Oh no, I’m not taking it badly at all. It makes me happy, in fact, proves I was right all along.”

“About what?”

“Choices I’ve made in life,” He let his head rest back on the bed. Was probably rambling now, but didn’t mind. “Such as not strolling about in a union suit like Uncle, keeping a high standard for personal appearance, despite various comments from you bunch...” He held her closer in his embrace, tone growing sober. “All of this has a purpose, Arthur, and the same principal extends to my actions. What I don’t understand is why you’ve been questioning one and not the other?”

There was a pause before she murmured: “Haven’t been doing so well as far as actions go lately. Feels like you’ve forgotten our code, like you don’t know what you’re doing anymore.”

_Then help me…_

“I’m trying, Arthur,” He spoke, as soothingly as he could, emphasising the emotional intention with gentle slides of fingers along her forearm.

“Then try harder, Dutch.” 

Damn, and he’d thought Hosea had been a harsh critic… At the same time, it dawned on him how, whereas with the old man he hadn’t minded that much, he didn’t want her to question him. Loved her too much to allow himself to appear as anything but capable in her eyes, had always been like that. Cared for Arthur’s opinion of him too much, and the feeling of inadequacy had grown with each doubtful glance, like needles piercing as they drove him to prove himself more and more, that he could still do it, that he still had it, that Arthur could still depend on him, for if Arthur didn’t...

“Cause if you don’t...” She continued, in a tone that left him unable to hope any longer that she could be drunk still. “What if I betray you?”

Dutch was surprised. Not because of what she had said, but because it didn’t make him freeze or become petrified as he had suspected. Instead, he felt content somehow, if a bit more melancholy. He had been expecting it, after all; what he had not expected, however, was a confession, if indeed this was one.

“Why are you telling me this now?” He asked, stroking her hair, nibbling on her earlobe. 

“I don’t know.”

“Are you asking my permission to betray me?” He asked again, an eyebrow raised as he kissed the top of her head tenderly. “That would make it a very poor betrayal.”

“Just curious to know what you’d do,” She turned her head and looked at him. In the dark of the room, with the lamp switched off, he could only see a faint glint in her eyes, not the colours he loved so much. “What ever will you do if I betray you, Dutch?”

“You don’t know, Arthur?” He kissed her lightly on her lips. 

She lifted her head and kissed him on his lips. “Tell me.”

“Why? So you won’t do it?” He asked, adding when no answer came: “Alright. I will tell you. Not now, later. Let’s enjoy this moment a bit longer, shall we?”

She nodded.

He would not tell her. He would show her. That was the best method for teaching, after all. And he had a few ideas just how he would do that. But for now, he hugged her closer, kissed her warmer, and would later that night and early in the morning fuck her gentler. Time was fleeting after all, and this was especially true of an outlaw life, so one should enjoy such moments as these while they lasted, since they didn’t tend to last long.


	34. Dans l’onde frémissante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s POV.
> 
> The boys get a bit muddy...
> 
> Takes place after the Favored Sons mission.

“Not gonna jump, Dutch… Can’t… Won’t do it...”

He kept whispering as they inched step by step backwards towards the gorge. In the backdrop of Dutch’s philosophising, he could hear the roaring river, his fear mounting as every possibility raced through his mind. Even if they didn’t get shot midway or shattered to pieces on hitting sharp or otherwisely shaped rocks on landing, he would surely drown… But the other man continued walking and didn’t seem to have heard any of his quiet appeals. 

John had a split second to decide if he should jump as well or not once Dutch had, until he realised he didn’t really have the luxury of deciding when he was grabbed by the back of his coat and pulled down alongside his long-time mentor, short-time tormentor. Prior to the exact moment when both his feet left the ground, he had thought the encounter with the wolves the most frightening event of his twenty-six-year life. He had been wrong, it occurred to him as screaming at the top of his lungs, arms flapping and legs flailing, he fell doooooown and chest-first into the river, the impact leaving him breathless for a moment or two. The strong current was soon pulling and pushing him with such force that he didn’t really have to worry about any attempts he may have had to make at swimming. All he could do was to try and keep his head above water, which worked sort of, until the river got a bit deeper. He tried to cling to a rock, but had to let go when a bullet made an indent in the grey surface right next to his thumb. He was sure he would meet his end soon when a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the current, and all he could hear were angry, vague yells carrying the message that he should stop climbing on top of his rescuer, until finally they reached shallower waters and fell flat on the shore, coughing up one element and gasping for the other.

“When I tell you to jump, you goddamn jump!” Dutch’s expression grew less reproving as his gaze fixed on him. “Told you I won’t let you drown, John. Remember? That time we went fishing...”

“Yeah, I remember...” He rolled onto his back, wheezing and panting, limbs spread open all starfish like, water lapping at his thighs. “You’re fucking crazy, old man… We could have just given ourselves up, the others would come and get us… Was a miracle we survived...”

He tilted his head to the right to look at the other man who was now emptying the water in his boots, then wringing his socks.

“I’m not giving myself up,” Dutch spoke at length, pulling his boots back on. “Rather die than surrender.”

“Well, I don’t!”

“That’s a difference between us, yes.” Dutch got up, took off his coat, trying to squeeze it dry. “Take off your clothes, you’ll catch a cold.”

John sat up, didn’t do what he’d been advised to do, instead glared at the other man in fierce disagreement as he spoke: “What’s that supposed to mean? The difference and all…”

“Means you do everything half-heartedly, Marston.” Dutch stopped wringing his bandana and turned to look down on him. “With Jack, with Abigail, your ideals, your faith in the gang, if you have any left, that is.”

“Don’t bring Jack and Abigail into this!”

“Why, you think you’ve been good to her, and to the boy?” 

John’s back and shoulders instantly heated up, he could feel the hair on the nape of his neck bristling. He moved to stand up, but was shoved back down on his ass.

“You think you’d make a good father, John?” He was asked in a deliberate but no less irate tone. “Answer me.”

“Better than you are.”

“John…” Dutch squatted in front of him, looking at him in all seriousness. “It touches me to see you think of me as a father, but the way I see it, son, you’re just an aimless man often in need of guidance and oftener in need of correction.”

He was still smiling that arrogant smile when he got up, turned his back towards him, pulled his coat on top of his soaking wet shirt and made to leave, saying something about how they should meet back at the camp. 

Too angry to think of a verbal response, John did what he used to do as a kid when extremely frustrated: stood up, took a fistfull of mud and threw it at the other man. Splat. The mud landed on the back of Dutch’s coat and stuck there for a second before sliding all the way down to the small of his back. Immediately the man came to a stop, standing unmoved for a second before spinning on his heels to face him, the fury in his stare forcing John to involuntarily take a step back. Watching him approach, seemingly calm and collected but John knew better, this time it was in self-defence that he took another handful of mud and threw it at the man. Splat. The mud hit Dutch’s chest a fraction of a second before his frame crashed into his, both landing on the ground, limbs entangled in a brutal struggle, punches flying, punches landing, pain flaring, rage overtaking, fabrics ripping, mud enclosing, mud all over, pain peaking in specific places, clasped, bitten, biting, clawing, choking, choked, then kissed, bitten, kissed, bitten…

Soon he was himself biting, kissing, biting, kissing, sucking and nibbling on the muddy fingers shoved into his mouth, others gripping his half-exposed hips, since wet slipping to his flanks, where the clutch of the fingers grew bruisingly vicious as he was flipped onto his stomach, face pushed into the mud, Dutch’s heavy length grinding against his ass, growls savage against his hair, tugged back by the other’s teeth. He tried to buck him off, but only succeeded in pressing back into the hardness, drawing out a slow pitch-dark chuckle culminating in an almost affectionate bite-kiss on the left side of his neck. He did manage, however, to somehow slither and squirm and recover enough room to shift onto his back.

Still finding himself overpowered, John took another handful of mud and pushed it down Dutch’s ripped-open shirt and union suit. The answer came in the form of a backhand, wiping off his grin, followed by another, which he responded to in turn with a punch to the jaw once he’d shrugged off the dizziness during which spell the rest of his clothes were ripped apart. The punch slowed Dutch down a bit but didn’t seem to faze him terribly, was on him in the next second, just as John was about to crawl away, pulling him back until they were engaged in an encore wrestling match to the soundtrack of grunts and snarls and the river roaring and crashing against the rocks.

“Fight like a man, goddamnit!” 

Dutch’s snarl when John yanked on his hair was almost deafening. Sensing the other’s grip on his throat increasing in intensity, John did a trick he’d learned painfully from Arthur and headbutted the man, eliciting a further volley of curses and invectives, giving himself a space to breathe and not have enough time to think of a plan, before he was pounced on and they went rolling and rolling until both were thrown into the river again, at which point John clung to a confused Dutch, pulling him into deeper waters, from which wet disorder they only managed to emerge a few metres down the river on the other bank, heaving and wheezing, too exhausted to continue the scuffle. 

They lay motionless for a while, John half-lying on top of Dutch, who kept trying to unlatch him from himself like one would a panicked kitten. 

“You’re a handful, John…”

“You’re a bastard, Dutch…”

“Little fucker…”

“Asshole!”

“Dumbass.”

“Tyrant!”

“Traitor.”

“Ain’t nev-”

John’s protest was muffled beneath a crushing kiss, feeling the weight of the other in his bones when it was pressed on top of him once they rolled over. Distracted by the soothing tongue strokes, the texture of the other’s clay-coated hair in-between his fingers, and the feel of his hardness gliding along his thigh, he almost didn’t register how his trousers and union suit - or what remained of them - were quickly done away with until half-naked he was flipped onto his belly. John used all his remaining energy to try and push the man off, but was held down by a tight grip on the nape of his neck and his own unwillingness to stop what was being done to him. A moan escaped his throat to feel Dutch’s other hand clasping his buttocks, kneading, pulling one cheek apart to spit on his hole. He could sense the fluid sliding down all the way to his balls, the ticklish sensation sending delicious tinglings through his already stiff cock. 

“Stay still, John, or swear to god I’ll fuck you dry...”

Immediately he stopped wiggling and let Dutch prepare him with rough fingers coated in spit. It was painful, but at least it was something, and he was feeling impatient already, his cock leaking as it rubbed against what remained of his union suit now crumbled below him in tatters. He whined like a pup when digits abruptly left his entrance and got fucked like a dog, from behind on all fours, face pressed into mud again under the weight of the other’s hand still gripping his neck, hips slamming into him urgently as he was opened up, pleasure gland repeatedly stabbed with a blunt force, insides burning with the pain of the pleasure. Already he was getting close, groaning like a wounded animal, fists clenching wayward plant roots, when suddenly he felt like laughing, started laughing out loud, and immediately felt the oh so gratifying thrusts decreasing in pace until the movement came to a halt entirely. 

“What are you laughing at, John?” 

The words were whispered hot into his ear, enhanced by a prolonged lick along the shell of his ear and the sting of a bite on the same shell, his head being pulled up and backwards by the tight grip of a hand in his hair. 

“Nothin’...” He moaned to feel Dutch’s teeth grazing his Adam’s apple before sinking into the sensitive flesh. “Just that… what sort of...”

He couldn’t finish his sentence as he burst out laugh-whining again while being chewed on, Dutch’s hum of pleasure vibrating across the skin of his throat, until he unclasped his teeth and withdrew, slapping John’s ass hard once before resuming with the repeated penetration, fast and hard, growling low when John reached to jerk himself off. 

“Don’t, let it last a bit longer, quick shooter that you are…”

“Maybe, but at least I can get hard real quick... Doubt you can do that now, huh?”

He grimaced and bit the inside of his cheek when Dutch pulled out abruptly and turned him around, a squelching sound marking his back’s encasement in a layer of mud. The other man bent and bit his left nipple viciously, mud and all, before moving to his lips, biting, kissing, licking, himself reciprocating, tasting mud and copper and... He was entered again and Dutch took his time fucking him this time, as if enjoying the moment, brown eyes fixed on his almost looking kind. 

The thing about John was that when he didn’t have to think, he didn’t, easy as that, he could switch off, became blissfully visceral in his interactions and just enjoyed the moment, enjoy being taken. As for shame? It was unknown to him, especially in such moments. So it was in absolute joy that he wrapped his legs about Dutch’s hips and pulled him closer at the same time with a hand snaked around his torso, hmmmm… now urging him on with crude, wicked whispers, the instantly enhanced friction ripping him apart almost, almost, almost there now… 

“Mmmm…”

He mewled loud and bit whatever expanse of skin was at teeth’s reach - which happened to be an exposed shoulder - even harder when he came, Dutch’s fingers clasping tighter around his prick, the bastard not stopping even after, so he squeezed his eyes shut and allowed the elated current to transport him towards various euphoric altitudes, upwards and downwards finally into a lethargic state even heavier than the mud clinging to their still rocking frames. 

He was kissed again, patiently, before Dutch pulled out, readjusted their positions so his legs were propped against the man’s shoulders, somewhat painfully as he felt his body folding in half, giving the other man much better access to his depths as he entered him again, drives measured but desperate, sweat and mud dripping from his brow onto John’s face, face contorted into an expression that John couldn’t quite decipher. He would say it was one of pain had the circumstances been any different… But his focus was shifted away to his own state, overcome as he was by a mixture of arousal and ache, wanting too much and too little, as looking up at the man he sneered and spat at him in playful taunts, fingers gripping tightly to the soiled mane, even until after he climaxed, filling John’s heated insides with his seed. 

His numbing legs were let go of, and while he expected Dutch to pull away completely, he did the opposite. Leaning down, both hands moving to grasp John’s waist, thumbs massaging the bruised skin in circles, he began rubbing his face alongside John’s, licking at his scars, humming low whenever John planted rogue kisses here and there, managing to catch his lips finally so they spent the next few minutes just kissing, and also licking, and also sucking on various points on the other’s face and throat, tired frames sliding slowly against each other, clothes half-torn, keening, groaning, and John was half-hard again when their movements came into a halt. 

“One day,” Dutch began, panting as they lay next to each other. “You’ll find something worthy enough to go all the way for. Perhaps then you will understand me.”

“And you? What’s that one thing for you?”

“Freedom.” 

Once upon a time John would have accepted that answer as it had been given him, and in awe and admiration too. Now he wasn’t so sure, having lost his own freedom only very recently, which made him doubt whether securing a collective manner of freedom was their gang’s priority anymore.

“What type of freedom?”

Dutch turned to look at him. He looked impressed, John thought, as he answered: “Freedom to be who we are.”

“Uhum…” John’s frown persisted. “And if two persons want different things… or the same thing that can’t be shared?”

“Then they’re both free to fight for it. Whoever is better will win, naturally.”

“Bet Cornwall thought the same.”

“Maybe. But he lost, even if he’d started with a much better hand.”

They remained quiet for a while. Dutch broke the silence.

“Don’t make me fight you, John. You won’t win, and I don’t want to hurt you. You may not believe it, but I do care for you.” 

He was surprised to feel the soft touch of fingers caressing his hair, thumb stroking the side of his neck in gentle motions. His body was warming up again, the familiar ache returning to his lower abdomen. He rolled to place himself on top of Dutch, straddling him as he sat up. 

“Shouldn’t have told me that,” John flashed him a grin, bent and kissed the tip of his nose. “Now I know your weakness.”

Dutch chuckled, running the palms of his hands along John’s naked thighs.

“I win.” John’s grin vanished as he added: “She’s mine.”

Dutch smiled. “Don’t test my patience, son. I like you, but my love for you has limits. I’m not going to warn you twice.”

“What are you gonna do?” He let his fingers shift from the man’s chest to wrap loosely around his throat, wincing when the thumb he’d pushed into Dutch’s mouth was bitten. “Let me guess… Leave me in a prison to rot?”

“Something like that...” Dutch’s tone grew soft, too soft, uncharacteristically so, and the tip of his thumb was kissed. “Or just become really sad, thinking my precious son doesn’t love me anymore.”

“I can live with that,” He began rocking his hips ever so slowly. 

“I know.” Dutch’s hands came to rest on his ass, drawing him closer.

“Does it hurt?”

“Sure, even monsters have hearts. I’m just very good at not showing it.”

“What’s the point of having feelings if you won’t show it?”

“Idiot…” Dutch laughed lazily. “Can’t help it, it’s in my nature. You can’t-”

“Fight nature, I know...” 

“Feelings aside, there will be consequences. You know my thoughts on forgiveness.”

John nodded. The cycle had already begun, he reckoned, since the time Dutch refused to help him at the bank. But for now he said nothing. Tried to enjoy the moment, muddy as it was. This was what John was best at, after all, living in the moment.


	35. Si riduce ad impazzar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Javier’s POV.
> 
> Warning: minor skin cutting with knife.
> 
> A bit of _Brokeback Mountain_ inspiration in here! ;)
> 
> The poem Javier thinks of is by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz.

Javier was in a bad mood. He was moody usually, but recently the worse moods tended to last longer than the better moods. His leg where he had been shot in Guarma ached more than ever, and his grooming routine seemed to never go quite right. His hair wouldn’t behave, and no matter how hard he tried, one side of his moustache appeared to be longer than the other. He was running out of clean clothes and opportunities to wash them - since Grimshaw’s disappearance the girls had collectively decided to neglect their laundry duties. Worst of all was that he didn’t even have a guitar to console himself with anymore. And last time he attempted to calm his nerves by sharpening his knives it backfired - or backcut - and he ended up with a smarting nick on his index finger. 

_Sigh_...

He blamed all this misfortune on the unending stress they had been subjected to since the bank job. Being pursued on all fronts without receiving any rewards for their pains seemed to have produced a horrible effect on the general morale. Everyone appeared to have lost their minds one way or the other, if they hadn’t deserted already. Karen had fallen headfirst into the bottle, gone crazy, talking to herself half the time. The Reverend was gone, and Trelawny vanished - yet again - about a week ago. There was talk of leaving among the others as well, which frankly broke his heart. He had only been with the gang for about four years, but he saw them as a family, a fact which was very important to him, having had to endure the pain of separating from his own. Sometimes he thought perhaps most gang members had not suffered enough loss to realise the value of camaraderie, how precious and rare it was to find a group of like-minded and like-hearted people. Attitudes like this made him miss home...

The only persons who seemed to have maintained a sliver of sanity were Bill, Tilly Jackson and Strauss. For the past few months, Javier had got to know the latter better while going on money collecting errands - an activity that he particularly despised but carried out anyway at Dutch’s behest - and although he didn’t admire the man’s methods, at least no one could say Leopold Strauss wasn’t loyal or level-headed. There was strength in his quiet resolve and he admired him for that. Micah, he couldn’t fully trust, hot-headed as he was, but Dutch trusted him, and Javier could see why; the man wasn’t a complainer, he was a doer, an attribute preciously needed in dire times like these.

Concerning Dutch, he hated to admit it but the man was becoming careless. It had all started since old Matthews’s death, an event whose occurrence, in Javier’s opinion, had changed the semi-egalitarian arrangement they usually worked with into a form of autocracy with all its mystery and lack of transparency, which greatly puzzled Javier who knew just how much, like himself, Dutch loved freedom. What bothered him most was that he couldn’t bring himself to intervene, which would be unwise given how unhelpful any sign of dissent could be in their current situation. Moreover, in his heart he believed that once they were past this stage, with the peril lessened, everything would go back to normal. If only they could all be a little more patient, a little more committed to the cause... On the other hand, on a personal level, Dutch was getting somewhat, how do you say it, handsy, and while Javier was flattered and understood the man’s need for companionship in troubled times, he was very much aware that he wasn’t some consolation prize or replacement fuck.

As for Arthur, pregnant or not, he couldn’t forgive him for his constant doubting. As if faith was something one professed in happy times, and not an important element that was sorely needed when circumstances were less than favourable. He couldn’t tell if Morgan was purposefully in denial about how much Dutch needed him now, or if he’d truly gone blind. Even thinking about it made his blood boil, as did watching Morgan spend more and more time with newcomers such as Sadie Adler and Charles Smith, going on with them to fight some inconsequential O’Driscoll fight or help Rains Fall’s tribe. He understood their plight, of course, but what he didn’t understand was why the plight of outsiders should take precedence over their own!

Abigail Roberts had Jack to take care of. He understood that. Mothers tended to be like that. And Marston... Oh, but John... He couldn’t stay mad at John. So he went to see how he was doing.

Javier couldn’t find John at any of his usual hangouts, and angry and moody as still he was, he decided to go for a walk, Murfrees, Pinkertons and the Army be damned! He found a rather elevated, secluded spot and sat himself down on his poncho. It was a shame, but the poncho had got so dirty recently he might as well use it to save his trousers from the same fate. He rolled a cigarillo and began smoking while sipping a bit of whiskey from his hip flask, already feeling calmer to be away from the camp and have his favourite flavours delighting his tastebuds. It was mid-afternoon, natural serenity surrounded him, voices of various birds and animals lulling him into a state of restfulness as he enjoyed the warmth of the slanting sunlight reaching him through lines of trees. He took a handful of dirt and inhaled its pure scent which, enhanced by tobacco fragrance, did much to improve his spirit, so much so that he began murmuring ‘La Sandunga’ in response... Until suddenly he heard a noise and before he could draw a throwing knife his torso was entangled in ropes and hauled backwards so the back of his head hit soft ground, an upside down, scarred face hovering above his, grinning.

“Hey, darlin’. What’re you doing out here all lonesome?”

“Praying for _peace_.”

He was about to shrug himself out of the lasso when it was pulled back and he got dragged a few feet on the ground, cursing and howling at a childishly laughing Marston who seemed to think this was all terribly funny. Once he’d managed to free himself, Javier quickly set to wiping the dirt and dead leaves off his jacket and trousers, and began looking for his hat which he discovered on the other man’s greasy head.

“Give it back, _puto_! I swear-”

“Here, you wear mine…”

“No fucking way!”

The chase would have deteriorated his mood even further had it not been for the sound of John's merry laughter gracing the forest air as the man dodged behind this or that tree, his playfulness contagious, almost. When he had finally recovered his hat, Javier had to inspect it carefully before putting it on, which made John laugh even louder as they walked back to where his poncho lay still spread, upon which they threw themselves with a noted lack of elegance.

"How the hell can you be so cheerful in times like this, _amor_?" He asked, smiling to recall how a usually sullen John only showed this playful side of his to individuals he was comfortable with.

“I don’t know…” The fiend grinned. “I’m just like this, I guess, don’t let much bother me. It’s in my nature. You can’t fight nature, Mr Escuella. There is a very important lesson for you in this, son…”

_Huh!?_

Javier didn’t get a chance to articulate his confusion, however, when his mouth was claimed in a kiss, soft and patient, though ultimately interrupted when he audibly groaned once his cut finger came into contact with John’s hand as he gripped his tight. Marston enquired if anything was wrong and on seeing the cut, he raised Javier’s hand to his mouth and began licking the wound, planting tender kisses which trickled onto unwounded skin, till his chapped lips reached the steadily increasing pulse on Javier’s wrist where they stayed for a few quiet moments. In the meanwhile, Javier let the fingers of his other hand slide kindly through Marston’s hair, unwashed or not, so dear to him. It amazed him how affection for someone made him not mind traits he would have despised in any other person or even in himself. It made him wonder wether he would feel the same about differences in ideals...

“John, what are your thoughts on loyalty?” He asked, gently nudging the other’s brow with his. “Not Abigail’s opinion, your own.”

Marston lifted his mouth from Javier’s wrist, eyebrows knitted when he answered after a couple of seconds: “I don’t make an idol out of it as you do. My way of thinking is simple: if someone treats me right, I treat them right.”

“That’s what Abigail said, isn’t it?”

John shrugged. “I reckon we’ve both suffered enough in our lives to have come to the same conclusion.”

“What about, say, Jack?” Javier continued, rolling two cigarillos, handing one to Marston and waiting for him light both. “If Jack treats you unkindly at some point, you won’t stop being kind to him, right?”

“Of course not,” Marston took a drag of the cigarillo. “Though I’d give him a good thrashing.”

“So you do understand loyalty to one’s family?”

“This is about the gang, ain’t it?”

“I just don’t see how you and Abigail can think of leaving.”

“The others did too, didn’t they? And acted on it.”

“They were idiots!” Javier tried to calm himself down by caressing John’s scarred cheek. “You’re different…”

John huffed and pulled back a bit, but smiled when he fixed his eyes on him and spoke: “Look, if I thought spanking Dutch would make him see sense, I would. But he ain’t a kid, and I think he knows exactly what he is doing. Sure, it hurts him to see what’s happening to the gang, but he has made his choice. As have I, and it hurts me too, but I’ll do what I have to do. I don’t hate him for it, I’m just... disappointed, I guess. I think he feels the same about me, so we either go on disappointing each other or…” Marston hushed Javier before he could comment and added quickly: “Let’s not talk about this anymore. We’ll just fight and I don’t want that for us, _chica_.”

“It’s _chico_.”

“Yeah, but you’re my _chica_.”

“You think that offends me, _hija_?”

“Nah, think it makes you shiver in all sorts of rapturous delights, sister…”

He allowed a once again grinning Marston to distract him with silly words and even sillier tickles, since there was some truth in the man’s words in that the argument between them wouldn’t stop if they continued on the subject. They just had very different opinions, he had to accept it. He even let John fuck him, like he had wanted to. It was marvellous, just how tender Marston could be for a rough-edged outlaw. How considerate of his enjoyment, for their enjoyment, while at the same time wild, playful, childish, manly, womanly, charming, and full of grace in his own way... _Si al imán de tus gracias, atractivo, sirve mi pecho de obediente acero_...

Javier sighed to feel attentive digits curling up inside him, eager to give him pleasure, searching black eyes fixed on his, waiting for the slightest sign of displeasure to amend the approach being used. He closed his eyes and dipped his head backwards when John pushed his thighs further apart, leaning to take the head of his half-hard cock into his warm mouth. Oh... He was very sensitive, Javier was, when he was aroused, which always took a bit of work, but not so with John apparently... Half-opening his eyes, he let his gaze roam all over Marston’s features, nomadic, knowing too well the rest stops in whose security he had lingered before many a time... Now feeling himself getting close, he curled his fingers in John’s hair and drew him away from his cock, asking him to enter him so they could come together, or as closely as possible. Marston obliged, shifting to position himself on top of him, nakedness touching nakedness, leaving kiss-traces all throughout the way, each and every one of which made Javier squeeze his eyes in contentment, until they flew open once John pushed in and he could feel himself expanding to accommodate the other’s length. 

“John…” He murmured, voice hitched, moments after Marston had begun moving.

“Hmm?”

“I want you to... Here, take my knife…”

“What for?”

“I want you to... Cut your initials on my arm, you know, like a…”

“What!? You gone mad?”

“Got so many scars, what’s one more? I want to…” Remember you, he wanted to say, but couldn’t bring himself to say it. “In small letters, hurry…”

“What if it gets infected?”

“We’ll wash it with whiskey,” He dug his fingers into John’s bicep encouragingly. “Do it!”

Marston stilled his movements finally and took the knife. Javier closed his eyes and bit his lower lip to feel the tip of the blade pressing into the skin. He’d been wounded before numerous times, so the pain wasn’t unbearable, but the procedure took longer than he had expected, which he attributed to Marston’s lack of skill, but was found to be in the wrong later on... For now:

“Press on it when you fuck me…” Javier whispered. “With your hand…”

He heard John mutter something, cursing perhaps, as he did what he had asked him to, the man’s features losing their distinctiveness when his vision was veiled with tears. Marston’s voice grew more distinct, however, even if the words were nonsensical now, pouring out rapidly, rapidly, in tandem with the increased pace of the fucking. He pulled him closer with a hand hooked on the nape of his neck, the other busy attending to his own shaft, feeling John’s orgasm nearing now, nearer now...

Javier climaxed first, he realised, moments after the euphoria had settled into a longer lasting mist enfolding his trembling body, the heat subsiding though never gone. John was still inside him, gasping and grunting as he reached his own peak, hips snapping forward powerfully, with unexpected irregularity sometimes, awakening new wants in Javier who was both delighted and fearful of the unforeseen influence. 

“JIM?” Javier eyed the bleeding initials in his pocket mirror moments later. “You have a middle name?”

"Yep," John spoke as he dabbed the wound with whiskey. “John Incredible Marston.”

“Hmmm, more like, John Idiot Marston…” Javier chuckled.

Marston laughed. “You do mine too.”

Javier didn’t want to at first, what with the heat of the moment gone, but acquiesced when John insisted, carving a ‘JOE’ on the other man’s upper arm and explaining that his stood for Javier Outstanding Escuella. They compared hand-carvings; they looked awful.

“We should have got proper tattoos…”

“Yeah... Where though?” He asked John.

“Bet Cleet and Joe could tell us.”

“You know, they have matching tattoos on their chests _and_ backs. Wonder if they’re fucking…”

“How do you know?” Javier took a deep breath, trying to calm his still beating heart as he lay down beside John. “About their matching tattoos?”

“You can see them... Though I guess could be a sign of friendship only…”

“What about the one on the backs?”

“I saw him wash himself once…” John was speaking in an odd tone now, avoiding his gaze.

“And the other?”

“Fucked him…”

“WHAT? When!?” Javier raised his head, resting it sideways on the palm of his hand supported on an elbow. “They’ve been here a couple of days only!”

“Not now!” Marston explained. “In Sisika…”

“Cleet was in Sisika!?”

“No... Joe…”

“You fucked Joe!?”

“He was so seductive!”

“ _Madre de Dios_...”

“I know... Don’t want to be reminded of it either, trust me…”

Javier rolled his eyes in response, dipping a rogue finger into John’s yawning mouth. That was Marston, alright, full of surprises... 

“Just don’t show him the initials…”

“Oh, shit!”

Javier laughed lethargically and laid his head on John’s chest.

“You know,” He began after a few moments. “I think it’s better we have some random Jim and Joe carved on our arms... My mother always used to say if you find true happiness, you shouldn’t- Hey, are you even listening?”

When no response came, he was about to look up to Marston to see why he was quiet, when he heard him snoring. He stayed by his side for a while, then got up, pulled on and tidied his clothes and spread the poncho over John before making his way towards the camp.

Following the conversation with John, Javier felt he needed to talk to Dutch, remind himself why he admired the man, how Marston was wrong about him. Soon as he had stepped into the tent, he came across the boss whispering something to Bell. He apologised and made to leave, thinking they needed some privacy to discuss plans perhaps, when he was invited to join in. He wasn’t surprised to see Micah’s wide smile, the man had been getting somewhat friendly with him and Williamson recently, which he played along with, trying to see it as a positive sign indicating that Bell wasn’t as bad as the others made him out to be. He had stuck around at least, and was making his best efforts to help Dutch with getting them out of this situation. Javier could respect him for that.

“So, what’s the next move?” He smiled, trying to look steadfast and reliable, and more importantly excited about whatever they were supposed to be doing. “Better have lots of noise in it!”

“Oh, there will be noise, Mr Escuella!” Dutch grinned, not his usual confident grin, perhaps a bit more shaken, but at least he was trying. “I won’t let you down in that respect.”

“You never let us down, boss,” Micah chimed in, offering Javier one of Dutch’s cigars, which he refused politely. “Escuella is a good, loyal man, so we should tell him I think. On condition you won’t share it with Williamson or anyone else.”

“I’m not a talker.”

“I know, son, and I’m thankful for it,” Dutch resumed, voice even more gruff than usual, out of sleeplessness no doubt. “We’re working on a train job. A grand one, it will be the one to get us out of here for good.”

He listened to the two men explain the plan’s outline without going into details, which made him wonder if he was trusted after all, but he wasn’t one to let suspicion poison his mind against his comrades. He could ask for the details if he wanted to, but he trusted them enough not to do that, and wise enough to wait for the time of the reveal to come, assuming that perhaps they hadn’t thought of all the details yet. Micah had shared particulars of various smaller-scale plans with him before, so this was no big deal...

On leaving the tent, Javier couldn’t say he felt exactly better, but at least his mood was steadier now, he felt more determined to stay committed, as always, resolute, unmoved by various-

“Woah! Watch where you’re going, Williamson!”

Bill apologised for having bumped into him, sending his lighter frame spinning, but immediately as he had finished speaking he grabbed hold of Javier’s arm and pulled him towards the deserted scout’s camp.

“What’s wrong?” Javier asked, watching the man fidget for a while, looking spooked. “You saw a ghost or something? Wouldn’t be surprised in these caves-”

“It’s Karen!” Bill interjected, motioning for him to come closer. “She’s gone mad, and it’s not drink, or well, not the usual drinking antics!”

“That so?”

“Have you talked to her recently?”

“Nothing beyond the usual…”

“Well I have,” Bill added with more conviction. “And she’s been talking real strange. Sometimes, she seems okay, but then... Then she talks exactly like MacGuire! Same accent, even using his words…”

Javier smiled. He had seen enough women (and men) go crazy for love, had heard enough songs about it to not become too shocked. Must be a cultural thing, he reckoned, with the northerners not being too comfortable with confronting the stronger emotions and what they could do to a distraught human being.

“It happens, brother.” He tried to reassure Bill. “Love makes people do strange things, combined with the drink, gets even worse.”

“I don’t think that’s it…”

“She might feel better once we’re out of here. Dutch and Micah are working on a plan.”

“What is it, you know?”

“They’ll explain later,” He said and even as he said it the look on Williamson’s face made him feel frustratingly unsure. “So, what did you want to talk to Karen about anyway? You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?”

“Me? Of course, not!” Bill huffed, lit a cigarette and sat down on a log. “Am on my courses again, was gonna ask her for some advice…”

Javier nodded and sat down as well. He didn’t really want to know the details of this particular matter, so they sat there in silence. He took out his favourite knife, the one he’d asked Marston to use earlier, hoping in the silliest of ways to maybe still feel the other’s warmth on the hilt, smiling at himself for his idiocy afterwards. The blade still had a bit of dry blood on it which he proceeded to clean meticulously.

“Say Bill…”

“Hmm?”

“If this all goes to hell, let’s stick together.”

Williamson looked to be thinking for a moment. “Do you think it will?”

“I hope not,” He lifted his eyes from the knife again. “I will try my best to prevent it, but if it does... I’m thinking that Dutch has Bell, Marston has Abigail and Jack, Morgan has Smith and Mrs Adler, the girls have each other, and Uncle and Pearson are pretty friendly, which leaves?”

“Strauss?”

“No dummy! Us, we should stick together I think.”

Bill shook his head affirmatively after a moment of contemplation. “Fine, I’ll have your back, if you have mine.”

“Good. I don’t think it will come to that, but just to be sure…”

“Yeah, I understand…”

“On the odd chance…”

“Sure…”

The bitter quietude that followed wasn’t to last long. They were soon roused by a battle cry and on rushing towards Dutch’s tent, saw Eagle Flies and his men asking them to join them in raiding the Cornwall Kerosene and Tar factory, while the chief implored them not to. Already Javier felt another foul mood returning, watching the confrontation growing more intense between father and son, forcing the gang to choose a side. Perhaps John was right, sometimes one had to make a choice, and if that was the case he knew were his loyalties stood. It was only after Dutch had announced he would ride with Arthur that Javier volunteered to go as well.


	36. Che dà morte, e non uccide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur’s POV.
> 
> Mutual emotional hurt and some comfort. 
> 
> This is super long, I know, but it’s the last Arthur POV and I got a bit carried away! And Arthur’s horse is named after Oscar Wilde, yeah...

“All them years... Twenty goddamn years... Is what you’re thinking, isn’t it? Why I did it after all we’ve been through? Well, I’m not going to answer that. But know this, Arthur, if it was anyone else, anyone, I wouldn’t have done it. Wouldn’t have left them for dead in the oil factory. Would have helped them.”

“I know.”

“They would’ve been grateful. Forever grateful to Dutch van der Linde. But you... you don’t want to be grateful, do you?”

“No.”

“Took me a while to figure it out. Why you hate being called a ‘good man’. Why you don’t like being thanked. You don’t like owing even the slightest measure of gratitude to anyone.”

“No.”

“You wish to be free. In a way, you long for it more than I do. Took me even longer to understand that, Arthur. So I decided to offer you your freedom as a parting gift.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You don’t want it? Or am I wrong?”

“You are lying.”

“How so?”

“It was no gift what you did. Was a warning, a taste of what you’d do if I betrayed you.”

“That was the idea in the beginning, yes, but then I changed my mind. You give warnings to someone who has potential for change. But then I thought, among us all you are the one who’s least likely to change. Who hasn’t changed, while we all did, even John. But you still believe freedom is possible in a world like this if we stick to our principles. I can’t live up to our... your ideals anymore, Arthur Morgan. So I’m letting you go. I left you to die, I betrayed you, betrayed our code, and I want you to take this as an indication that what you think of as the debt of twenty ye-”

He stopped him. Pressed a hand to his mouth, the other shifting to the back of his head as he stepped forward so that the seated man’s brow was touching his midriff. 

“Wonder sometimes if you realise how cruel you are being...”

Arthur kissed the top of Dutch’s head, still keeping him mutedly pressed against himself.

“It’s cruel to make me feel sorry for you, to show yourself like this, weak, broken…” 

Resting the left side of his face against the site he had just kissed, he inhaled deeply. Just as he felt Dutch’s hands circling his waist, Arthur let his slip to the man’s shoulders, where they remained while he lowered himself to straddle his lap, their eyes meeting. 

“Do you think I care, hmm? Do you think I care if you’re broken? If you need me to fix it?” He moved a hand from Dutch’s right shoulder to the side of his neck, thumb stroking the slightly stubble-speckled skin. “Do you reckon I love you? Or fear you even?” He dipped forward and kissed him on the hollow of his neck. “ _I fear nothing aside from your cowardice. Let me know that my brother is a man, not a coward_...” His sighed to feel the other man’s grip tightening on his waist and his voice ebbed into a murmur. “This isn’t fun anymore.”

“This?” Dutch gave his bum a squeeze.

“No.” Arthur treated his throat to a small bite. “Hurting you.”

“Hmm, I know something that’s fun…” Dutch whispered after a moment or so, gently pushing him off to stand up. “Ride with me?”

“Always,” Arthur lied, smiling. 

Just as they were about the leave the tent, Dutch stopped and turned around, no longer whispering: “Let’s leave separately.”

Arthur nodded. He agreed. Much better to not upset the rest of the gang’s speculations, when come tomorrow all would go back to normal and they would have to resume their usual roles of the betrayed and the betrayer, places changeable depending on the speculator’s perspective.

“Fetch your horse, meet me at the northern side of the camp by the riverbank.”

“She has a name, finally.”

“Does she?” He looked genuinely curious. “What is it?”

“Make a guess.”

“Hmm… Morgana?”

“Nope.”

“Duchess?”

“...”

“Giselle? Mimi? Violetta?”

The name game was paused once they separated and resumed when they met at the designated place, until growing tired of making fun of Dutch’s guesses, and knowing he wouldn’t give up, Arthur decided to tell him.

“C.3.3.”

“Say again?”

He explained that it was the pseudonym of a poet whose poem he had read, about a month ago, and couldn’t forget about. 

“Well, I guess it’s better than Old Boy… You know it used to be just Boy. When the poor horse got older he changed the name to Old Boy...”

Dutch wouldn’t stop chuckling, and Arthur had a feeling part of the mirth was aimed at his own name choice as well as John’s, so remained peevishly quiet until the other man began speaking again, this time in a much more sober tone.

“Uncle and Pearson left.”

“So I heard.”

“Mary-Beth too.”

He sounded pretty miffed about that particular departure which made Arthur smirk. 

“Sounds like you lost your chance.”

“Didn’t give it much try…”

“Didn’t look like it, Dutch. More like a failed attempt, told you you’re getting old. Even I’m too old for her.” 

“You’re too old for anyone, Arthur. Spirit-wise, I’d say you’re about ninety.”

“She didn’t think so, asked me for a dance at Sean’s party, remember?”

“That’s usually how it works with clever girls. They approach the person closest to their target, to test the waters, as it were. Much to learn still, son…”

“Aww… Hungry wolf can’t face losing the juicy steak!”

“She might come back, who knows…”

“Doubt it. And the sad part is you could have succeeded if you had more time. Ah, just think about it, Dutch, you could be holding her right now, so warm and young, and firm, mmm…”

“Oh, shut up…”

“Bet she wrote about you in her journal, how she was losing her will to resist…”

“She kept a journal?”

“You didn’t know?” 

He was going to tease Dutch a bit more, lie about how he had read the girl’s diary and the things he’d read, but just then The Count came to a halt outside a cottage he had passed by once but never had a chance to inspect. Arthur dismounted and followed Dutch into the building, surprised to be confronted first by the strong smell of rotting flesh and next by the sight of a large hole in the middle of the cottage’s floor once Dutch had lit a candle, holding it above the hole.

“What the hell is this!? A meteor?”

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

Arthur peered into the hole, gesturing for Dutch to lower the candle as he knelt and looked carefully at the piece of rock that was still lying there, bandana held over half his face to protect himself from the stench of the corpses. He picked the rock and turned it this way and that, examining it as he stood up.

“How did you find this place?” 

“By chance, saw smoke rising from the roof and went to see what happened.”

Arthur put the rock in his satchel, removing the bandana once they’d stepped out of the cottage. 

“So, how is this funny…”

“Didn’t say it was funny, said it was fun. Wasn’t it?”

“Suppose it was… Never seen anything like it except for in the papers.”

They mounted their horses. 

“And it’s poetic,” Dutch added, leading The Count towards the road. “A metaphor for what you do to me whenever you doubt me.”

Arthur wondered briefly if he should take the statement as a joke. Didn’t seem like one… A thought occurred to him just then and he abruptly spurred the mare into a trot. 

“If we’re dealing in metaphors, there is something I’d like to show you too.”

Dutch followed in a faster pace, with Arthur increasing his speed so he could never quite catch up to him, until they were standing outside the odd looking residence of a new acquaintance. 

“This magnificent place belongs to an inventor I met recently,” Arthur explained, both still mounted. Himself grinning, Dutch frowning, an owl hooting in the background. “His greatest invention yet is one of them automata. Only it’s supposed to have a will of its own, but I have an inkling he likes to tell him what to do. And that, my friend, is a metaphor for how you treat me when you ask me to follow you unquestioningly.”

“That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard…” Dutch spoke, slowly turning to face him, both eyebrows raised in incredulity.

“It’s not absurd, it’s dragic.”

“What?”

“Nothing…” Arthur chuckled and shook his head. “Tragic and dramatic at the same time.”

“I won’t even pretend to understand what you’re saying anymore. Let’s have a look at whatever this thing is, poetic though it does not sound…”

Unfortunately for Arthur, when they entered the laboratory, they found the inventor dead on the floor and no sign of his mechanic son. 

“Well, I take back what I said,” Dutch spoke once they’d left the building. “There is some poetry in that. The creation destroying his creator, always how it goes...”

“Now you’re being absurd.”

Dutch patted him on the back, suggesting they should see one more place before returning to the camp. 

“Only one more?” Arthur quirked an eyebrow, smiling as he mounted C.3.3.

“Only one more,” Dutch smiled, spurring The Count into an easy canter.

The journey was longer than Arthur had expected, but it somehow wasn’t unpleasant, considering they hadn’t been on comparatively good terms for some time now. Besides, he had a feeling there wouldn’t be many other chances for a ride like this, with just them two. They must have ridden for a good while, the canter morphing into a trot, before Dutch unexpectedly asked him how he found Charles’s and Sadie’s company. 

“They’re decent folk, you know that yourself.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it, finding decent folk for your gang?”

“What are you saying, Dutch?”

“No need to hide it. Yesterday, at the factory, I saw how you rode at the head of your posse, charging forward, come alive like you’ve never been, at least not recently. I’ve seen it for a while, in fact. You’re bored, I reckon, want your own gang, and-”

“It’s-”

“Let me finish,” Dutch lifted a hand. “I have to admit, I couldn’t even stand the thought of you leaving. But if that’s what you want… I can’t say I don’t understand.”

“They’re not my gang, Adler and Smith, they’re my friends.” 

Arthur debated with himself if he should tell Dutch that Eagle Flies had died, but decided against it. Let the illusion last a bit longer. So he remained silent, concentrating on the road and the trees and the animals moving from one to the other, refusing to acknowledge the theory about him wanting his own gang. 

“What am I to you?” 

Dutch’s question surprised him. He wasn’t usually the kind to ask the sorts of questions whose answers could be potentially harmful to both of them. 

“I know you loved Hosea as a father, but how do you see me? A friend? Family? Teacher? Enemy?”

“Don’t think I can say, Dutch.” Arthur responded at length, eyes still fixed ahead on the road. “Don’t think there is even a word for it, or if there is I don’t know it.”

“Can you describe how you feel at least?”

“I have strong feelings for you. Sometimes these are pleasant feelings, sometimes they are unpleasant.”

When he tilted his head to look at Dutch, he was looking away, seemingly deep in thought. He couldn’t tell if he’d been offended or not, though his next words spoke against such an assumption, maybe.

“You should have become a diplomat.”

“Learned from the best conmen in the whole country.”

They didn’t speak for the remainder of the way. Once they arrived at their destination, the silence between them grew even quieter when Arthur lost all focus on the other man’s presence to take in the astonishing splendour of the scenery: a vast field punctuated with a profusion of wild flowers. He couldn’t recall having seen anything like it. At least not in this colour, never so uniformly red, almost.

The poppies glared fresh-blood red under the moonlight, a recent rain’s touch accentuating the sharpness of the shimmering thin petals cutting into the thick fabric of the night. He wanted to touch them, as he did with other plants, but at the same time wouldn’t dare to, seeing as how uniquely _him_ they were. So he remained leaning forward on the saddle, crossed forearms resting on the pommel, thighs gripping old smooth leather, feet lodged in the stirrups firmly. 

“Come on, come...” 

Still enchanted by the beauty of the flower field, it took him a moment to notice Dutch standing to his right, arms held up, waiting for him to alight. Arthur removed one foot from the stirrup and hooked the corresponding thigh around the pommel as he turned to face him without dismounting. 

“What game is this now?” Dutch raised both eyebrows, hands descending to rest on his own waist. 

He blinked a couple of times when he noticed he’d been staring at him and spoke: “Wondering how you found this place.”

“Haven’t been here for a while,” Dutch sighed and pointed in a direction behind him. “There used to be a shanty up that hill, came here to be by myself sometimes.” 

Arthur chuckled.

“Why? Is it that strange?”

“To think I’ve known you for twenty years, but never saw this side of you…”

“Guess we’ve both been surprising each other lately… Come, let’s see if the shack is still there.”

He watched the man making his way through the animated carpet up the hillock, and waited until he had disappeared from sight to slip down the side of the mare, pat her on the neck and follow the fading trail. The shack or what was left of it was in ramshackle, there was almost no roof left and the interior space, hardly large enough for two people to stand in, was filled with various types of natural and manmade debris. Under a desk, Arthur found a tin box that he opened with his knife, surprised to find a gold nugget and some jewelry inside. 

“These yours?”

“Heh, yes… I’d forgot about it.”

Arthur hummed in approval to spy a rare cigarette card among the goods which he pocketed. Finders keepers.

“And my share?”

“I’ll give it to you when you give me my share of the Blackwater money.” 

The words were spoken half in jest. He left out a request for his share of the gang stash. Dutch cast him a glance, expression guarded as usual, before making to leave the shack, when without meaning to or having planned it Arthur suddenly found himself embracing him from behind. Dutch stopped at the threshold, remaining quiet for a moment before speaking.

“What is it?”

Voice as soft as a starless night.

“What is it, Arthur?”

Hands even gentler when they caught hold of his.

“What do you want me to do?”

Held him tighter. 

“Shhh…”

“Hmm?” 

“Just... shut up, Dutch.” 

He was angry when he turned around, unclasping Arthur’s arms from around his torso and taking hold of his arms, holding him steady, which wasn’t needed really, he wasn’t going anywhere. Arthur frowned back, trying to outscowl Dutch, not even sure if he could tell who hated whom most at this stage. Almost felt like the first time they’d met, the first glare, meant to scare off, mark territories, gauge courage, establish ranks. Now the same gesture was used to convey a familiar sort of disappointment, which in itself was comforting for being shared. So he wasn’t surprised when he was pulled into Dutch’s arms and held tight, like he was willing to squeeze the life out of him, like Arthur had wanted him to when on the first night of his return from O’Driscoll captivity he’d asked Dutch if he was going to come for him and he’d remained silent, not realising he’d wanted him to lie, because his lies were as comforting as lullabies.

“Remember when you and Hosea first brought John and he did all those stupid things that made you so mad? I taught him to do it, told him it pleased you. Was so amusing watching you try to stay patient. Poor John, he believed it for the longest time...”

“Why tell me this now?” 

Arthur shrugged and by the time he was pushed back to sit on the weathered desk, the buttons of his coat undone and his trousers unfastened, wolves were howling in the vicinity of the hut. He pulled his lips away from Dutch’s and looked outside. Couldn’t see anything but could hear hoofsteps approaching, had opened his mouth when the other spoke.

“Not safe here, come, let’s move to the tower we saw on the way.”

They collected The Count and C.3.3., who in their trusting bond with their riders had headed towards them rather than run away on hearing the wolves, and set out for the cottage with the tower they’d spied on the way. Having checked that there was no one inside, they unsaddled the horses and fed them before retiring inside. Very clean for an apparently ownerless property. There was even plenty of food about in the form of cans, which they helped themselves to with some coffee brewed on the small oven situated in the middle of the room. 

“Haven’t done this for a while, have we?” Dutch remarked, sipping some coffee he had poured whiskey in, back resting against a chair, legs stretched out. “Eating together just the two of us.”

“Last time was in Gurama…”

“Ahhh, yeah…”

Arthur suddenly remembered something and pointed his fork at Dutch, speaking animatedly: “It _was_ a mango! I was right. Saw one in Saint Denis.”

“Well fuck… You’re going to lord it over me for the rest of our lives, aren’t you? Arthur know-it-all Morgan.”

However long or short that may be, the rest of their lives, he thought, but chuckled anyway, that is until he heard the man’s next question.

“Why won’t you let anyone love you?”

It took Arthur a moment to shake off the initial shock to the degree to be able to formulate a response: “I suspect for me that word has a different meaning than it has for you.”

“Tell me then, what does it mean for you?”

“What does what mean?” Arthur asked, annoyed, hoping by playing the fool the other man would become frustrated and let him be, which usually worked but not in this instant. 

Dutch responded patiently, gaze fixed on him: “To love and be loved.”

That’s two things, he was going to say, but decided against it, seeing how determined he was, so instead just grumbled and stared at his own whiskey-laced coffee for a few seconds before answering: “For me, to be loved means I have to trust someone to want my good. To love means wanting the best for another, giving my-”

“What is the best for you now?”

He eyed him for a moment and the play of dim lantern rays on his features, so changeable as they were depending on his mood and the lighting. 

“To rest. I’m so tired, Dutch…”

He had barely finished when he saw him put down his cup and approach, positioning himself between his legs which he pushed apart as he knelt on the floor by the bedside where Arthur was half-sitting, half-reclining, back resting against the wall. The empty cup was taken from his hand and placed on the wooden planks. Arthur sighed in relief when the same hand that was holding the cup was now massaged, meticulously, caringly, with both hands. It felt so good, the circular movements of Dutch’s thumbs on his wrist, then higher up... 

“There will be time for that,” Dutch promised. “When this is over, we will all rest.”

In their graves maybe, some of them, Arthur couldn’t help but think, and couldn’t tell if it was that specific thought that compelled him to bend and cup Dutch’s face, kissing him tenderly on the lips, successively, before grabbing at the lapel of his coat to pull him up and over himself.

“You sure you want it?” Dutch asked, already having stripped him from a third of his clothes, the exposed skin covered in lovelicks and lovebites. “You sure, Arthur?”

“What’s this?” Arthur laughed, yanking away the damned chains so as to be able to remove the black vest. “Some new way to-” He was kissed into silence, but didn’t give in. Soon as his mouth was released, he resumed: “How come you’ve been so soft lately?”

“You want it rough?” Dutch grunted, bucking against him in a physical enquiry, the friction making him bite his lower lip not to gasp. “Can do that if-”

This time he shut him up in the kindest way he knew, for as long as possible, but eventually they had to breathe. “Stop answering my questions with questions...” Arthur stared at him but no verbal answer came, instead the rest of his clothes were removed, a gesture he tried to pay in kind, failing mostly. “You ain’t going all sweet and soft on me, are you?”

“Don’t keep saying that word...”

“Which one? Soft?” He smirked, moaning low to feel the other’s mouth on his right nipple, hands taking a tour of private premises, checking more than exploring. “Soft, soft, soft, soft, mmphmmnnn…”

He let Dutch silence him for a while, the kindest caresses cruelly reminding him of what he lacked, the heat reminding him of how cold he was, until he pushed him away and flipped them so Dutch was on his back now, himself sliding down to free the other’s still trapped cock, giving the head a lick or two before taking it in his mouth, sucking slowly, then withdrawing to enjoy the sight of him: lust-crazed, frustrated, passive now, in pain, resolved finally, active soon. 

Arthur sighed when he was suddenly pulled up and rolled onto his back, entered slowly, unendingly, holding on to him, taking in his scent, more bullets and less cigar, wondering why he had stopped, was just holding him now, so he could feel it, the site of attachment where all freedom ended, all focus shifted to that point as if nothing else of their bodies existed or mattered. It was cruel. 

“You’re hurting me…”

He slapped his palm across Dutch’s back for emphasis, then a fist, still it took him a while to react, stop whatever it was that he was doing and move again. 

It didn’t take Arthur long to come once Dutch had started moving. By now he knew exactly what to do to send him over the edge, and tonight he wasn’t holding back, not for Arthur and not for himself either. No more games, for that short space, just pure, dangerous necessity. Even more treacherous since he liked it so much. He had done this to him, made him like things he wouldn’t like on his own, never thought he would, and more than often wished he didn’t. Like having his body trapped under someone else’s, limbs arranged in painfully vulnerable compositions, a mouth whispering to him how he liked it all not because it was good for him to be taken like that but because he needed it so that he could see parts him that would otherwise remain concealed. Dutch had nurtured it himself, that damned curiosity, Arthur thought even as he pushed back against him, clawing him close as his vision went static white, giving him access despite the hurt, despite the pleasure. 

“You’re so wet for me, Arthur… Every time, even that first time…”

He shook his head in the negative, but it only incited the other to go on, those infernal words, voice so inconstant in temperature, now warm, reminding him how loud he was being for him, how-

“Broken open…”

That was it. He could sense the other’s peak coinciding with his comedown, and already he wanted more, more, more... So much so that he wished they could fuck again immediately after they’d both been spent, but they were indeed thoroughly spent. Already he was falling asleep and suspected Dutch wasn’t faring any better as he curled around him.

“Try to get some rest, Arthur. There is a train job tomorrow.”

“Thought you were giving me my freedom?” He yawned, turning this way and that to find a more comfortable stance.

“Thought you knew I’m a liar?” Dutch muttered and pressed him to the bed presumably to stop him from wriggling. “Anyway this is the last one...”

“One last score?”

“One last score.”

“If you insist...”

“I insist.”

It occurred to him how for a while now every time they did something together it felt like the last time. Not just various jobs gone wrong, but attempts at maintaining their bond, most of which ended in failure. And then there was one more try. And one more. One more… 

“What would you have done if I’d died at the factory?”

He shook him lightly to wake him up. He was awake.

“Hated myself even more, I imagine, and it’d give me the will to move, even if it meant away from myself as I am.”

“And the child?”

The embrace tightened.

“ _Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word. The coward does it with a kiss_... And you know the rest.”

Yes, he knew what came after, and what came before as well. Arthur closed his eyes and through the lulling breaths of his lover heard the sound of a train. Even here, in the... of nowhere, the haunting sound wouldn’t... them alone. Hmmm, as if to remind... that there was no… left for them in this world. Perhaps he could… Dutch, he wondered... was about... fall asleep. In the end, it wasn't them who broke each other.


	37. Sol chi vuole si serbi fedele

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dutch’s POV.
> 
> There was supposed to be no smut in this chapter, but these characters have a will of their own and now I have a new ship in my fleet… *facepalm*

They had the money. Finally, they had the money. All those sleepless nights, having to put up with the gang’s failing morale, blaming himself for the said decline, etc… What personally pleased Dutch most, however, was that he no longer had to address all the questions and the lack of belief in the existence or feasibility of his plans. Finally... Even so, this new development didn’t mean they could rest yet, but at least the promise of a day where resting would be possible was on the horizon. Now they needed to escape, get as far away as possible from the law, which shouldn’t be too difficult thanks to all the noise they’d generated for this very purpose. 

There had been casualties, of course. Marston had most likely not survived, or he may have been captured. It was a shame, considering how long they had worked together. At the present moment, however, he couldn’t spare time and lives rescuing or even mourning individuals whose safety was no longer his responsibility. That was the agreement they had mutually decided on, Morgan and him, that same morning on the way back to the camp. Dutch got to keep the Blackwater money, Micah, his two associates, Escuella and Williamson, and Strauss. While Marston, his woman and his child, Smith, Adler, and Miss Jackson would be Morgan’s share, plus the gang’s money buried in the cave. They also agreed to collaborate on carrying out one last train job before going on their separate ways. 

Perhaps some may have found it strange that on returning to the camp he had seemed indifferent towards making an effort to save little Jack’s mother, but this change of behaviour wasn’t anything new. Hosea always used to remark on how Dutch could detach himself from inconvenient feelings in certain circumstances, and that was exactly the sort of situation they were in now. No merit in prolonging an illusion past the point of expiry. Morgan’s people must have felt the same, since they collectively disappeared no sooner than they had returned from the job. Presumably to save Miss Roberts. But that was their business. His business was to attend to what was left of his gang, encourage them, thank them, push them to move forward, and not look back.

“Gentlemen. Congratulations. We did it.” Dutch’s voice boomed across the nearly empty camp as he addressed the six men gathering in front of his tent. “I am, as ever, grateful to you all, Mr Bell, Mr Escuella, Mr Williamson, the two fine men who have joined us recently, and of course Mr Strauss who held the fort while we were gone. Now, we need to leave this place as soon as possible, so I suggest you each take as much as you can carry on horseback and be ready to depart in the next hour, at the latest.”

Retreating into his tent, Dutch began packing whatever necessary items he could take with him without taxing The Count: mostly clothes, shaving equipment, his pocket watches and chains, a few cigars. The phonograph and his cylinders were never brought from Shady Belle and the books he sadly had to leave behind, heavy and space-consuming as they were. He debated with himself if he should take his pipe as well, but decided against it. He could always find a new, better one. And then just as he’d opened the copy of his favourite book to have a last look, a photograph slipped from in-between the pages to the floor, softly landing on the tip of his boot. He bent and picked it up. 

“Whose picture is that?”

Micah Bell. Always appearing when he was least wanted. 

“It’s not a picture,” He explained for the man’s benefit, folding the rectangular piece of paper and placing it in his breast pocket. “It’s an autograph. Evelyn Miller’s.”

“Didn’t know you met him!” Bell’s eyes opened wide. “So how was he in person?”

“Less impressive than he is in abstract form, I’m afraid, though that’s usually how philosophers are.”

“I see…”

He wouldn’t dare say it, but he could see the gleeful jerks and twists adorning Bell’s facial features, presumably still impressed with his apparent influence on Dutch’s decision not to go looking for the girl. The expression made him feel sick to his stomach, but never mind that now… Everyone had their good and bad attributes and Bell’s positive qualities were required at the moment. 

“Anything else, Mr Bell?”

“We did it, boss!”

“Yes, I am aware of that, seeing as I said the same words myself only a moment ago.”

“You don’t look too happy. Something wrong?”

“Other than the fact that we are still being pursued, perhaps even more keenly than before, by those damned Pinkertons and the army and the police?” Dutch fastened the final strap of his saddlebag and tossed it on a chair nearby, turning to face Micah who was now leaning sideways against the tent pole, hands on hips. “And all that while we’re wasting time chatting.”

“I’ve packed already, Dutch. You know me, I ain’t the sort to get attached to my belongings.”

He took in a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm, had to look away momentarily to achieve said bearing, all the while thinking: Who the fuck did the bastard think he was to talk to him in that tone!? He had a mind to give him a good beating. Decided he would, in fact, once they were camped somewhere safe. Break a tooth or two maybe, usually did the trick.

“I’m just worried, is all. You ain’t regretting your decisions, I keep wondering? About Marston and his woman? We need you strong, boss. There is no place for doubt, not now, not never.”

Dutch sighed heavily, before moving to place a hand on Micah’s shoulder as he approached him and stood next to him, blinking a few times until his eyes got used to the bright noon light. 

“Why, may I ask, son, do you feel the need to keep reminding me of what I’ve told you boys myself?”

He felt the other shift but not move away.

“It’s not a reminder, boss… It’s just that, you see, I understand, what it feels like. After all you’ve lost half your gang, and you loved them who left, no doubts about that, they were your sons, you raised them yourself. But it’s all for the best, you have better sons now. Loyal ones, who won’t let you down…”

While Bell prattled on, Dutch was occupied in an internal debate with himself on the subject of whether it would be in his best interest to ditch Bell and the rest, there and then, and set off on his own, start anew, make a new gang with no dramatic history to weigh him down, or even better: no gang. Who needed these people? Bunch of idiots, or otherwise disappointments… To be perfectly honest with himself, he was tired, no, exhausted. Work and work and work all the goddamn time to create something noble, something different, then have some ingrate bastards piss on a lifetime’s achievement by either leaving halfway and destroying the very foundations of your labour, while accusing you of being a damned devil for trying, or by imagining you’re stupid enough to lose yourself to a few flattering words that weren’t even coherent enough to convince a two-bit harlot... Who the fuck were these people!? He found himself almost shouting that one aloud as his anger rose, threatening to push him into doing something he knew he’d regret, because now was not the time for drama, but goddamnit if his patience hadn’t reached its limit and stretched be-

“May I have a word?” 

The soft spoken words followed an even gentler cough, redirecting his glare from a wagon across the camp directly situated in front of his tent to Strauss, who immediately apologised, saying he’d return later…

“That’s not necessary,” Dutch let go of Micah’s shoulder, which had lowered in position under the weight of his hand, and stepped out to walk beside Strauss. “Tell me, what is it? Are we ready?”

“Almost…” The timid but infinitely useful man responded. He had seemingly, and unbidden by anyone, taken on the role of the camp arbiter in absence of Pearson. “There are a few things I’m not sure what we should do about.”

“Go on…”

“As I’m sure you’ve noticed, the girls are all gone now,” Strauss explained as they stopped before the women’s wagon. “There are some of their effects left, however. I was wondering if we should do something with them, take the precious items maybe? Who knows, if we ever reunite...” There was a pause and Strauss’s hopeful glance moved something inside Dutch, which he chose to ignore nevertheless. “There is Miss Gaskill’s books and I think her journal, which she left behind, I’m sure-”

“Journal?”

“Yes. What do you think we should do with them?” Strauss asked, speaking a bit more carefully as he continued. “And then there is Mr Morgan’s and Mr Marston’s belongings…”

Dutch reached and took the books Strauss had handed to him, flicking through the pages quickly to see if any of them was the diary, which he eventually found and kept in his hand when he handed the rest of the books back to the man. 

“Please go through the girls’ effects, if you found anything of value, take them for yourself. I doubt they’ll return. Leave the others’ tents untouched. Thank you, Mr Strauss.”

His gaze still fixed on the diary’s pages, Dutch strolled back to his tent, closed the flaps, sat himself down on the cot and began reading. He perused the diary from entry to entry, skipping irrelevant bits to stop at the more interesting parts, such as the entry scribbled down after Sean’s party, and found himself particularly invested in a few entries written during their time at Clement’s Point. Eventually he came upon an entry that caught his attention because of its unusual way of beginning, indicating perhaps the writer’s heightened emotional state. He was curious to know why. 

_It has been two days since we have settled in the new camp. This time it’s an old abandoned plantation house surrounded by swamps and not too far from Saint Denis..._

Well, that explained the heightened emotional state. It had been a sorrowful and stressful time for them all, following MacGuire’s death and the hasty change of camps. Still, a happy time in at least one way… Not wishing to dwell on past losses, he resumed reading. 

_When it transpired that the Braithwaites were behind it, Dutch, Mr Matthews, Mr Morgan, Mr Marston…_

_Dutch promises he is alright ~~but how would he know, I cannot help but wonder~~ …_

Well, what do you know, weren’t just the sons... 

_...one Mr Milton from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. The man must have been out of his mind to just waltz into the camp and demand Dutch’s surrender…_

_It was a mistake ~~in my opinion~~ to let him go alive. Although on his own he may be of little danger, it is clear that he is a shrewd man, a proud man, who would not forget his defeat easily. We shouldn’t underestimate him…_

Heh, clever girl… Pity she hadn’t spoken her mind sooner, always so quiet...

_Dutch, Mr Smith and the boy’s father have gone to Saint Denis to gather information…_

_...couldn’t find Mr Morgan…_

_...should ask Mr Matthews to talk with her…_

_...back when I talked to Arthur, I never managed to…_

_While Mr Morgan has done some ~~horrible~~ questionable things…_

His eyebrows shot up on reading about the girl’s fondness for Trelawny... and Escuella… and his attractive daringness - well, he couldn’t argue with that - and her dreams of living a revolutionary life with him… True then, what they said about the quiet ones... 

_The most ~~mind-boggling~~ extraordinary thing has happened! About half an hour ago, when I was writing the above lines, I was interrupted by Miss O’Shea who…_

_...Grimshaw has proposed to her and they have decided to leave the gang without telling anyone…_

_She told me she is-_

He had to read the sentence twice, read the entire paragraph, then go back and read it again from that specific sentence, then again, then the rest of the entry, then the entire entry, until he was sure he hadn’t imagined words that weren’t there, or that the tone wasn’t one to suggest it hadn’t been written in jest, or- Molly, pregnant!?

He needed to find her. Or so he thought immediately as he had finished reading, but then decided to practise some restraint. He _would_ find her. There should be a way to find out where she had gone off too. He could enquire at the Saint Denis train station, by any means necessary. And from there, another station and so on… Which meant, however, that there would be a delay in their plan of recovering the money from Blackwater and possibly heading for New York. Not that the others were aware of these plans yet, and he still couldn’t fully trust them either, knowing how their loyalty probably extended as far as their greed. On the other hand, without the promise of Blackwater money, most of them would probably leave anyway… 

“Dutch…”

He lifted his eyes from the diary, closed it and sat upright, gaze fixed on the young man peeking through the half-open flap. 

“Come in.”

He motioned for Escuella to sit on the cot next to him, wondering if he should be the man he could trust enough to send to Saint Denis to collect information about Miss O’Shea’s whereabouts. This was sensitive information that could be used against him…

“Do you think Marston could have survived?”

Probably not the man, after all…

“I wouldn’t know,” Dutch responded, eyeing the boy who appeared somewhat shaken. “We did what we had to. You said yourself he was thinking of leaving.”

“Yes, but... I shouldn’t have… I was angry, I think he wouldn’t have left just like that…”

“Well, it’s done now.”

During the silent spell that followed he observed how the man’s posture became more hunched, brow now resting on his hands joined in a fist, elbows resting on his knees.

“I don’t like this, Dutch. How things turned out.”

“I don’t like it, either.” He sighed, lighting two cigars and offering one to Escuella. “For that very reason we need to stay strong. How is Bill?”

“Fine. We’re both loyal, Dutch. It’s just-”

“I know, and I’m grateful to you for that.”

“And I to you, for all you’ve done for me...”

“Did you have feelings for John?” Dutch eyed the young man carefully, taking a drag from his cigar.

“Yes,” Javier answered, repeating the gesture, lips curling around the cigar.

“For how long?”

“Since before he left. Started some time after I met him.”

“Did he return your feelings?”

“Don’t think so. I mean, it’s John…”

“Hmm, true…” He had to straighten out the smile that had sat on the corner of his lips. “Tell me, Javier, what does love mean to you?”

The young man turned to look at him. “You mean my love for John or in general?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Well, maybe… I love my country, but if I love someone, it’s more intense. I want to be close to them, their presence fills me with happiness, their absence makes me miserable. I think about them all the time, when I fight, when I sing, it’s only for them, and when I die too… What about you? What does love mean for you?”

He was surprised. Usually his questions weren’t thrown back at him. What did love mean for him? Admiration? Appetite? Obsession? Need? 

“Hope,” He finally responded. 

From the young man’s expression he surmised that the answer must have confused him.

“Any kind of love translates into hope for me. Hope that we can change things for the better, hope that something beautiful can come about from associating with someone,” He elaborated. “To the very end, I still had hope that we could create something. All of us, society’s outcasts, but together we had hope.”

“Still have,” Escuella said, eyes shining sad but true, undoubting. “It’s not the end yet.”

“You say that even if we both-” 

So startled was he by the unexpected meeting of the boy’s mouth with his own that he didn’t respond for a moment and when he did, he had withdrawn again. 

“Thought you said you rather not?” Dutch asked, puzzled, looking at him in a different way now, gauging possibilities. “On the boat.”

“Sorry, didn’t know what came over me…”

Javier stood up to leave but he grabbed his wrist and pulled him back gently till he was sitting next to him again, closer this time. Dutch didn’t say anything, slowly as he let go of the wrist and lifted the same hand to trace the horizontal scar marking the young man’s throat. He didn’t pull away, though sounded a bit nervous when he spoke next.

“You remind me of him… You know, when I first joined the gang, I thought he was your son, Marston, your real son.”

He didn’t quite know what to think of that confession. He couldn’t see any resemblance and didn’t wish to think about it at the moment, which may have been a contributing factor in his decision to go further, embrace the young man fully, push him backwards, lips and teeth far from gentle as they scouted new territory. In the midst of it all, he couldn’t help but wonder how the boy managed to smell so good, when all of them reeked of horse shit and sweat by now. So he licked and licked and licked the fragrant skin of the scarred neck, hmmmm, arousal straining against his trousers as he now pressed the lad flat on the bed, forcing his thighs open with his knees, withdrawing marginally when he felt the young man pushing against his shoulders with both hands. 

“This is just... this, right?” Escuella panted, fingertips still kneading his shoulders. “No feelings?”

“Sure.” Dutch confirmed, unbuttoning the boy’s jacket, his shirt. “Pretend I’m John if you like.”

The thought of it made him want to laugh, but he liked the idea. He could do the same, or not, seeing as there was no need for that. An omission of sentiments suited him at the moment. He only needed a warm body to help him release the excitement of the job and introduce some balance into his system. Indeed, he could enjoy himself more if he didn’t have to worry about his partner’s finer feelings. So having assumed they’d come to an agreement, Dutch felt a bit vexed when he was pushed away again, his manual study of the shape of the other’s dripping cock interrupted. 

“One more thing,” Javier was murmuring, pressing against him with increasing force so they rolled onto their sides. “I’ll be on top.”

Dutch thought for a moment, then shifted to adjust their stance, pulling the boy on top of himself. “Fine, if you want to ride it…”

“No, I mean…” 

A bark-laugh escaped him to feel his legs being pushed apart.

“Son… Do you honestly think I’d let you fuck me?”

Fuck, he looked disappointed, charmingly so, flushed cheeks and all. 

“Some compromise then may-”

“I don’t do compromise.”

Dutch sat up, letting the boy slip to the floor.

“I only let Marston fuck me, don’t do dou-”

The young man’s lips looked so good around the three digits, two of them ringed, which he was soon sucking on obediently, after an initial biting resistance duly corrected with a mild slap. Dutch reminded himself not to go too rough on him, seemed a bit fragile, the boy, despite all the bravado and the knifemanship. A delicate soul, he figured, staring into feline-sharp eyes as he undid his own trousers, pulled out his half-hard length and began stroking it, removing the fingers momentarily to run them through dark slick hair, petting, petting, before hooking a hand behind the boy’s neck and drawing him close.

“And yet you betrayed him. Left him to die,” He spoke and hissed to sense the warm wet grip - with a touch of teeth - fastening around his length. “Don’t you think you deserve punishment for that?”

He pulled him forward, gentle, uncompromising, wondering if the gradually forming tears had more to do with physical or emotional distress, sighing all the while to feel his the head of his cock passing through the deliciously constricting opening of the boy’s throat. His other hand covered the young man’s fingers digging into his clothed thigh. Eyes remained locked until he was sure they had come to an understanding, so he could let his other hand move to unbutton his own waistcoat while the boy pleasured him. His punishment.

“You’re doing so well, a little more yet, you can do it.” 

What an exquisite sight: the youth on his knees, loyal to a fault, gaze perceptive, mouth so affectionate, tongue so attentive, throat so tight he feared he might come before he had a chance to fuck him, temperament matching his, passion too. If only he could want him as much as… 

“That’s enough.” Dutch pulled away, his hard member from the man’s dedicated mouth and his thoughts away from where they were heading to. “How do you want me to take you, son? How does John take you?”

Watching Javier tip his head down and shake it in the negative, Dutch moved forward, joining him on the floor, pinning him down as he kissed his swollen lips, salty-sweet, thinking what a shame it was they didn’t have enough time for him to strip him naked, feel the heat of his skin properly. The responsive moans and gasps were so sweet he decided he’d be merciful, let the boy have a chance to indulge in his fantasy, so he flipped him over, pushed his head down, shoved his legs apart, pulled his trousers down, cheeks apart, growling in gratification to feel the tightness of the entrance now penetrated by oiled fingers, every movement eliciting even sweeter yelps and mewls.

Briefly he wondered if he should do an imitation of Marston, but he couldn’t even imagine how that one fucked. Probably rapidly and impatiently, like some newly matured pup or buck rabbit. That wasn’t his style, so Escuella would have to make use of his imagination in that department. 

He entered him slowly, enjoying every second of it, every quiver, whimper, holding on firmly enough to the boy’s hips to leave bruises for days to come. He closed his eyes to more fully register the heat of the inviting tightness when he was in to the hilt, ahhhh, at some point noticing the cries he very much liked to hear dying down. On opening his eyes, Dutch realised the boy was biting his own wrist, so he took hold of Javier’s tied hair and pulled back, the ensuing wail drawing an appeased hum from the depths of his chest. 

_Good boy, hmmm_... 

Sometime after he’d started moving, the boy took hold of his left hand and moved it from his hip to his upper arm, closing his fingers around his, squeezing fast. Dutch couldn’t tell why Javier had thought that action necessary, but obliged him anyway, tightening his grasp around the boy’s arm, which seemed to produce a lovely effect in that he suddenly became more animated, got into it, was pushing back now, no longer vocally shy, which enhanced Dutch’s own mood immensely, and so he rewarded the young man by letting go of the boy’s hair and reaching to palm his erection, sopping wet, the noise filling the tent, grunts bouncing off fabric walls, sweat dripping, bending now to bite the nape of his neck, hold him secure, growling low when the boy tilted his head to…

 _Fuck_...

The little pecks, so many of them, the sweetness of them, only made him want to go deeper, fuck him rougher, slap, slap, slap, to his ah, ah, ah… He wanted to turn him over, look him in the eyes, drink his pleasure, or pain, or whatever it was he may be feeling, kiss and lick the moustache he’d modelled after his, but restrained himself not wishing to be too cruel. And he himself was so close, and they didn’t have time, not much time left now… 

_Damn fuck_...

The boy’s climax, vibrant, hot, his tightness sucking him further in, triggered his own. He doubled over him, snapping his hips forward, full force, again, and again, then holding stone-still as he emptied his seed inside the trembling passage. Their mouths had somehow found their way to each other, and he devoured him, sighs and tongue and taste, all his for that moment, for him, still emptying, electric jolts coursing through his body, energising, soothing, and the thud, thud, thud of his own heartbeats against his rib-cage, deafening... 

Dutch chuckled to hear Javier’s whine as he pulled out the winking hole, shifting to sit on the cot as he wiped himself off, savouring the spectacle of the disarrayed man before him. 

“Clean yourself, we’ll be leaving soon.”

He tossed the cloth for the boy to catch. Bent and picked up the cigar that had been thrown to the floor in the passion of the moment and lit it, taking a deep inhale, eyes returning to Escuella when addressed.

“So, Dutch…” That smile, he’d never forget it. “Who’ll punish you?”

He raised both eyebrows and exhaled a puff of smoke, smiling. “I punish myself.”


	38. Perché non fugga più

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Milton’s POV.
> 
> The final phonograph recordings of Agent Andrew Milton of the PNDA.
> 
> He gets a few things wrong…
> 
> Warning: mention of torture.

Imagine a world where there is no crime.

Where civilisation has triumphed over savagery. 

Where order has triumphed over chaos.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

Impossible? No.

Difficult to achieve? Yes.

What stands in the way of such an immense but necessary achievement? Parasites. Otherwise known as ‘outlaws’.

A gang of outlaws, specifically, in the present case. One of the few still enduring the progress of time. Not for much longer, however. 

I record these entries today with the suspicion that it would not be premature to celebrate the imminent elimination of the gang I have been pursuing for the past half a year. Up until now, I felt reluctant to record my thoughts about the individual members of the gang, lest my subordinates gain access to these records and make an attempt at trying their luck in the gang’s capture without seeking my council, aiming for promotion, most decidedly producing disastrous results. In the current instance, housed in a former fence in the town of Van Horn, I no longer see the need to be over-cautious in expressing my findings.

The gang, when I met them face-to-face in their territory near Rhodes, consisted of about twenty or so members, most of whose names I was not aware of until we captured one specimen called Micah Bell, who very much assisted in increasing our knowledge, but more on that later… The main body is comprised mainly of a group of two dozen males - among them two females - and is supported by a group of mostly females and some elderly males. Bell swore these latter persons play important roles in carrying out various jobs, and I have no doubt about that, but personally I see them more as victims than criminals - miserable, lonely, depressed - hence not my natural targets, except for one who goes by the sobriquet Uncle. An extremely suspicious personage for various reasons which I shall outline when it comes to discussing his or perhaps _her_ character… Another one of these lost souls who is important to us at the moment is a woman we captured this morning at Beaver Hollow caves. She will not tell us who she is, but more on her later also. For now I begin my analysis with the most important member of the pride:

 

 **Dutch van der Linde, code name ‘Butterfly’:**

What we have here is an unusual outlaw. Unusual in not so much the way he acts, but in how he thinks he is acting. Other gang leaders I have come across throughout the years have often - unless motivated by some sort of national or local ideology - benefited from a surprisingly lucid view of the world in which they live, as well as their own negative role in this world. They seldom harbour delusions of being agents of vigilante justice or some such. Not so this man. Van der Linde seems to be of an entirely different ilk, fancying himself capable of changing the world to fit his vision; indeed, imagines himself justified in doing so. A cog moving against the machine. In a way he is the opposite of law and order, a force of chaos and destruction, who extraordinarily employs destruction as a means to create a domain based on a distorted dream. A most fascinating specimen to be sure. 

A number of times I have wondered whether I was falling into the trap of what we detectives call the ‘Javert complex’ among ourselves; that is, the mistake of acquiring empathy for the criminal we are pursuing, which seems to occur whenever the chase lasts longer than expected or the criminal is unusual. Van der Linde’s case happens to be both. In this regard, however, I am safe. Van der Linde is no Valjean, he is no ‘benevolent malefactor’, as Miss Isabel F. Hapgood so aptly translated. Indeed, in my long career I have come to realise that such a ‘monster’ does not exist. We live in a pragmatic world, a sad world even, where no such entities as kindness of heart and charity for the sake of charity prevail. My father always used to remark on how my view of the world is too grim. He also used to remark on my emotional disinterest in fellow human beings. In this line of work, however, this alleged inability, partnered with a grim view of the world, is extremely useful. Hence, this ‘granite’ does not doubt. And my interest in Van der Linde is purely professional, perhaps with a tint of the intellectual. A lepidopterist’s admiration for a butterfly and no more. But I digress…

As I had promised the man, I gathered more than fifty men, for the second time, to descend upon his lair, but the timing of our assault was unfortunate, otherwise we would have got them. I knew I should not have trusted Bell too much, but we had to take the risk. The female in our custody, nonetheless, is an important part of the ‘family’ as I understand, seeing as she is very likely the mother of Morgan's child. For reasons to be disclosed shortly, my instinct tells me that Van der Linde himself will come to retrieve the woman. And so I wait, having woven an intricate web ready to catch my prey.

My reason for giving him the code name Butterfly has to do with the colourful allure with which he attracts those around him, and how he flits from one beautiful flower to another, if rumours are to be believed... If I were to describe him in lepidoptery terminology - myself being a keen aurelian - I would suggest that he is a red monarch. In any effect, it is not only charm that is needed for a gang’s maintenance, which brings me to the next specimen. 

 

**Hosea Matthews, code name ‘Spider’:**

This man puzzled me for a while. The most amusing factor is that I was not even aware of his importance for the longest time. I had heard of a long-time associate of Van der Linde by the name of Matthews, of course, yet even his wanted posters in Blackwater looked different to how he looked like in person when I visited the camp. It was only after we had interrogated Bell that I realised this man’s true significance, even more so than Bell himself does. Hence my listing him as the gang’s second most authoritative figure. 

My theory is that while Van der Linde used his charm to lure various reprobates into joining the gang, it was Matthews who kept them from leaving, hence the code name ‘Spider’ - inspired also by the fact that he was shrewd enough to remain unnoticed all this time. I have not yet explored sufficiently how he does- or, well, did it. My guess is that he excelled at his role mostly by playing the ‘fatherly’ character to the orphans and outcasts they picked up here and there. Whereas Van der Linde uses his charisma, Matthews uses affection, which is as deadly a tool if not more…

I took great enjoyment in killing him, in particular in front of Van der Linde; my only regret being I could not see the latter’s expression when it happened. I do not yet quite know why, but it pleases me to see criminals suffer. It is not an impassioned joy that I feel in such moments; rather the clinical satisfaction of seeing harmony restored. At any rate, now that Matthews is dead, I am confident it should be much easier to ensnare the gang, especially since another key member may as well be dead or gone.

 

**Arthur Morgan, code name ‘Grizzly’:**

When I first met Morgan on the bank of Dakota River fishing with his son, I was surprised. According to rumours he should have been a dumb brute of a burly man with not a sliver of wit or sense. But the exact opposite was true, so much so that I wondered why he had chosen the career of an outlaw, which in turn strengthened my belief in Van der Linde’s and Matthews’s corrupting capacity. The man immediately interested me, and had it not been for Ross’s presence I would have very much liked to talk with him a bit more. It was not to be… 

It so happens that Morgan has gone missing. For several months in fact. According to Bell, however, this is not the case. Bell claims Morgan has ‘turned into a woman’ after drinking some ‘magical potion’. We gave him a good lesson on the disadvantages of lying, but he kept insisting he was speaking the truth. I can only assume he must have formed a particularly strong bond with Morgan, to want to protect him like this, especially since he was so loose-mouthed when it came to revealing the other members’ identities. 

My speculation is that Morgan either left the gang after some dispute with the other members, or possibly that he is dead and they do not wish to appear weak by revealing this crucial information. Or another theory could be that he has been sent in advance to the location overseas where they plan to escape to eventually, to scout and gather information, potentially build a base of operation. At any event, his departure seems to have coincided with the arrival of his sister.

 

**Martha Morgan, code name ‘Galago’:**

There is much I do not know about this woman. All I know is that she is a bad bi- creature, almost as angry and ferocious as her brother, and as efficient. With regards to her name, in the many newspapers I have gone through she has more often than not been referred to as ‘Martha’, and while some colleagues believe newspaper gossip to be false, I believe there is a lot of fact to be garnered from gossip. Though I do not care too much about persecuting most women of the gang, I am of the opinion that this one should not be spared. The hostile looks the nasty creature threw my way… Such aberrations belong to the gallows. 

I call her Galago because although I have never seen one’s picture, I have read that these animals, native to the African continent, are notoriously difficult to study, hence the suitability of the code name. 

 

**Uncle:**

This particular criminal appears to be nowhere and everywhere, has many aliases, and I believe his own name is a code name so I will not give him one. His _modus operandi_ continues to baffle me greatly. I am at odds with myself on whether or not I should place this mysterious specimen above Morgan in order of importance. He or she - I have heard contrary reports on this subject - is the one member I know least about, and whom I suspect to be of great importance. Indeed, I wondered for a while whether he is not the man - or woman - who runs the entire operation, with Van der Linde as his ‘face’ and Matthews as his _consigliere_ as they say in Italian crime families running amok in Saint Denis - more on them in another recording. This theory works well with my theory on how the gang’s unique ‘family’ structure functions in their favour when it comes to attracting and retaining members. I have, however, since discarded this theory, though my suspicions of his significance remain as firmly rooted. 

For now I restrict myself to keeping an eye out for further information about this man - or woman.

 

**Javier Escuella, code name ‘Tabby’:**

This is a key member of the gang whose existence I was pretty much unaware of until I met him at Clements Point. He was sitting with Van der Linde, Matthews and Morgan’s sister at the table, looking pretty self-important, so I asked him who he was and he said ‘Rip van Winkle’. I repeat: ‘Rip van Winkle’... 

*sighs*

His handsome face was all striped with scars like a tabby cat, and he seems to be as hysterical as one, hence the code name Tabby. I have put Ross on his case, asked him if he can retrieve any information from across the border, or maybe even from New Austin and sheriffs who have pursued Del Lobos members, since the fellow must be from Spanish or Mexican descent with that name, but so far there hasn’t been much information forthcoming. Sometimes my associate can be very... incompetent, to put it mildly, but I leave this subject to a future recording... 

 

**John Marston, code name ‘Raccoon’:**

Though I only saw this one once and briefly, I remember him well. Dapper fellow, obviously with at least one South American parent, the most neatly dressed of the bunch, hence the code name, which was not chosen by myself and I first heard it used by Bell. I didn’t understand why Bell kept referring to this individual as a ‘raccoon’, until it dawned on me that raccoons being extremely clean creatures Bell was probably using this address as an insult, what with the fellow being the cleanest gang member, which should appear as somewhat of an oddity to a herd of uncivilised criminals. 

At any rate, what I know for a fact is that he is also a slippery fellow who managed to escape Sisika after being captured during the bank robbery. I was not present when he was caught and it was the Saint Denis police who took custody of him and not our forces. I didn’t get a chance, unfortunately, to interrogate him before he was sent to Sisika, as I was assigned to another case almost immediately after I had recovered from the chagrin grappling with my soul, courtesy of Van der Linde’s escape to the Caribbean. Though I am sure it would have been a pleasant experience, the interrogation. I like nothing better than to break the unusual ones. 

We also know he has a woman in the gang called Abigail, since Bell referred to her at least once. He seems to harbour an acute dislike for the man, Bell.

 

 **Micah Bell, code name ‘Rat’:**

We caught this one drunk in Van Horn, but he sobered up soon enough. I used the usual procedure to retrieve information from him, which I will not get into here, since my investigation methods have been covered in different sets of cylinders, labeled _Of Rats and Lawmen: Torture Techniques Expected during the Inquisition_. With a coward such as Bell I needed to use minimal pressure - we didn’t even get to the pliers, which is a shame. His comrade, Mac Callander, now he was a different story, worthy of his own cylinder series… 

Bell was useful in providing us with information about various members, and promised to continue to be useful, though I did not fully trust him, of course. He is certainly not the loyal type, but I suspect he feels some measure of devotion to Van der Linde. My impression is that he is willing to assist in the arrest of the others, but not necessarily the boss, for whatever reason, which makes him half-useless to me. 

 

**Charles Smith and Marianne Williamson:**

I do not know enough about these two criminals to give them code names. Bell seemed to dislike them both, especially Smith, which doesn’t give me much information since Bell seems to dislike almost everyone in the gang. Must remember to not forget them in case they were not captured today. Potential seeds for future disruption...

 

**Sean MacGuire, Lenny Summers, Kieran Duffy:**

These three are confirmed to be dead. No need for any further investigation or speculation.

 

**The old men:**

As far as I understand, these old men are merely accessories to the gang’s upkeep, perhaps retired outlaws, in any event no qualified for the Agency’s notice. I know one of them is a cook, and they even have a priest, for what nefarious reason I cannot guess. We couldn’t find either him or any of the other elderly fellows - though one of my men mentioned seeing at least one old man running into the caves at some point during the raid. I don’t trust my men’s reports most of the time, so I shall ignore this one bit of misinformation. 

 

**The women:**

First, on the woman currently in our captivity. As I mentioned before, I believe she is Morgan’s woman and the mother of his child. I have a suspicion she might be either Van der Linde’s or Matthews’s daughter, since she seems to have been with the gang for a long time. This also explains why Morgan would have chosen her as a partner, probably aiming to inherit the throne, as it were. Perhaps they kidnapped the poor priest so he could marry them? Though I doubt these barbarians have any respect for such institutions as matrimony… 

Then there is the female called Abigail, Marston’s woman. I suspect she is the blonde woman dressed in pants. She is older than Marston, I would say, but he looks like the type who would have this sort of preference. 

The rest of the women are most likely petty thieves and prostitutes. Leftovers for less professional law forces...

This might be irrelevant, but some days ago one of the boys heard talk of an Irish woman who walked into the sheriff's office in Annesburg claiming she was Sean MacGuire, asking to either be hanged to exorcised. He dismissed her as a madwoman and so shall I. 

 

**The Morgan kid:**

Morgan’s boy shouldn’t be more than four or five years old. I would pity his fate, if-

 

I hear bullets. We have company. I shall continue with this recording another time. For now, the Butterfly awaits my pin...

Quick note to self: use less ‘hence’ and ‘however’. ‘Suspect’ is okay, you are a detective after all.


	39. Dammi il ferro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s POV, there are pronoun shifts.
> 
> Much angst, some blood/gore and some smut… 
> 
> Warning: potentially triggering content.
> 
> Boahs, this chapter is pretty depressing. It’s also the last chapter, next one is an epilogue.

“John!”

“Abi…”

“You’re alive! John!”

“Yeah…”

He hugged her so tight her entire frame sprang into the air, the pain shooting along his shoulder reminding him of the bullet injury, so he had to release her, though they still remained embracing. He kissed her, forgetting the pain again, and again was reminded of it when she clung to him, pulling him to herself, her beautiful self. 

“I thought you were dead…” Abigail stopped crying finally and drew back, stroking John’s cheek. “I shot Milton, killed him.”

“You what!?”

“That she did, heheh… Saw it with my own eyes.”

“Arthur!”

Shit, he’d forgotten about Morgan! Quickly John and Abigail grabbed Arthur who was trying to dismount the Pinkerton horse they had appropriated on their way to Copperhead Landing. Noticing Arthur’s bleeding had intensified, John quickly explained to Abigail that he’d been stabbed in at least two places, as far as he knew. Mrs Adler and Tilly joined them in an instant and began tending to Arthur, while John went to see if Jack was alright, hugged him and asked him to come help him prepare the boat they were going to use to escape. 

The sound of bullets ripped through the dark flesh of the night, heavy with mist and so humid. A few Pinkertons had tailed them, now were upon them. John had no more fight left in him after all that had passed, and so Sadie volunteered to distract them, lead them away while the others scrambled into the dinghy. Since he could only row with one arm, Tilly and Abigail took turns to row alongside him, all throughout the journey towards Saint Denis - not their first choice of destination, but they had to go there when a couple of search boats appeared to the north. Fortunately they got there just before dawn, crept onto the pier and from there to the slums north of the city, eventually finding shelter in an empty cabin where they hid like shivering mice, wet, exhausted and wounded.

They ate whatever food they had with them, and while Jack, Tilly and Arthur slept, Abigail came to John, sat next to him by the door and began treating his injury. He asked her what had happened with Milton and how she’d ended up shooting him, and was shocked to hear that she had been taken by the Pinkertons, felt even more pissed at that bastard Micah… She asked him what had occurred during the train job, and he explained how he had returned to the camp to find Arthur accusing Bell of ratting on them, Dutch not believing, or not fully believing at least, and then the Pinkertons showing up, the fight to the mountain skirts. To his surprise, Abigail wasn’t startled to hear Morgan had returned to the caves for the money afterwards, nor when he told her how he himself had changed his mind half-way up the mountain and headed back to Beaver Hollow in search of Arthur, who he’d found grappling with Micah. 

“Tried to shoot the fucker, but he ran away.”

“And?” Abigail asked, and when he looked at her like he hadn’t understood, she added: “Was Micah alone?”

“Yeah.” John responded. “They’d all left already. Javier, Bill, Dutch. Micah had come to get the money I guess.” 

They didn’t exchange any words for a while. He squeezed the hand she slipped into his, taking comfort in her presence. 

“I bagged as much of the money as I could,” He resumed at length. “Couldn’t take much cause Arthur was bleeding badly.”

“We need to get a doctor to see him.” She whispered. “I’ll go out tomorrow-”

“No, let’s send Tilly.”

She agreed. They spoke a bit more about some other things that he couldn’t remember later on since he fell asleep halfway through the conversation. 

It wasn’t until a fortnight later when John had a chance to talk with Arthur about what had happened at Beaver Hollow. In a theatre house, of all places. They were still hiding in Saint Denis, Arthur, him, Abigail, Jack and Tilly. There was no news from either Mrs Adler or Charles, who must have left with Rains Fall’s tribe, they figured. For the entire two weeks none of them, except for Miss Jackson, stepped outside the slums. She managed to alert Trelawny, who brought a doctor to check on Arthur, and eventually found a job and a place to stay for Tilly once she expressed her preference to remain in Saint Denis. As for the rest of them, they decided they would go to New York, perhaps find Morgan’s photographer friend, and while John was none too happy with this plan, he wasn’t against giving it a try. At least he managed to convince them to travel by train instead of a ship, hoping on the way there would be enough time to come up with a better idea. And so on that day Arthur and him had left the district so that John could buy the necessary supplies and Arthur could purchase tickets. They agreed to meet outside the theatre house. One moment he was walking on the street and the other getting dragged by Morgan into the Théâtre Râleur with no explanation. Arthur quickly bought two tickets to the show and pulled John into the auditorium. They took their seats at the very back, on a dark and relatively secluded row.

“What’s wrong?” He asked in a hushed tone once they had settled somewhat. “Someone recognise you?”

Arthur shook his head. 

“You look pale, Morgan.”

“He’s here, John.” He seemed calm enough when he uttered the words. “Dutch, he was at the train station.”

“What!? Did he see you?”

“No.”

“Was he alone?”

“I don’t know… Didn’t see him, just heard his voice.”

“Are you sure it was him?” 

John cast Arthur a questioning look. These past days, whenever they’d sneaked out of the cabin to stretch their legs or scout the area, Morgan kept imagining he was hearing Dutch’s voice behind this or that corner, so John couldn’t be too sure. 

“It was him. He was asking about Susan and Molly.”

“No shit!”

“Apparently they’ve gone to New York. He’s going after them, I reckon.”

They absently watched the show for a while, John barely registering what was going on, only absorbing the colours, sounds and movements. From time to time he cast glances in Arthur’s direction. Morgan had taken it harder than he had, the whole dissolving of the gang. He wouldn’t say anything, but John could tell. 

“You ain’t going to find him, are you? Talk to him?”

Morgan shook his head in the negative.

“You want to?”

“I don’t know, John.” Arthur sighed. “Part of me wants to, but I’m not going to.”

“Damn right you ain’t!” John tried to control his anger. It wasn’t fair on Arthur, he knew, but he couldn’t believe how stupid he could be sometimes. “He started it all. He left me to rot in prison, then didn’t even bother helping me with the Pinkertons, though they all saw me fighting for my life. They just left… And you too, it’s worse in your case, he didn’t believe you about that rat and didn’t even let you kill Bell in the end. If I hadn’t found you in time you’d have-”

“You uncivilised rubes back there! We’re trying to watch a show!”

John glared at the audience member two rows in the front and spat on the floor, but lowered his voice all the same as he continued.

“There is no going back now.” He placed a hand on Morgan’s and felt strange to feel him flinch at the touch. “You told me so yourself. Don’t look back, John, you said to me.”

“I know what I said,” Arthur paused and turned to look at him as he continued to whisper: “I’m just human, Marston. I have feelings too. Can’t just… The guilt, feels so suffocating sometimes, and I keep thinking what if-”

“Morgan. I know. I really do. There are moments I think maybe I was all in the wrong, maybe if I had done things differently… But we ain’t the ones who should feel guilty, at least not the only ones. We need to think what’s best for us. For Abigail, Jack, and… You nearly lost it. Remember how upset you were?”

He let his fingers slip from Arthur’s cold hand to his belly, gently caressing the slightly visible roundness in circular movements. 

“I’ll take care of you. Said so before, still standing by it. Forget him.”

“I can’t do that, and I don’t owe it to you or anyone else.” He couldn’t see his expression but he sounded irritated, grew calmer soon though. “Maybe if I knew why he did it...”

“I know why. Didn’t want to tell you, cause I thought it’d upset you, but I might as well now.”

He could see the white of his curious eyes in the dark now.

“I asked him, just before the train job. Asked him why he’d changed so much and he said he hadn’t. Said it was all Hosea.”

Not his best lie. But Arthur seemed to have bought it. Either that, or he’d felt the need to. It didn’t make a difference. In the long run, it would be good for him, for them both. For all of them. His family. He would protect them no matter what, even if it meant he had to lie to them. Go all the way. Like father, like son.

“Well then,” Arthur spoke quietly, tone serious, having spent a few moments in contemplation. “Suppose we need to find a new destination. New York won’t do anymore. Any thoughts?”

“Yeah, I agree,” John responded, getting up. “Let’s have a drink first.”

He flashed Arthur a smile and held out a hand, which she took, releasing as soon as she was up on her feet. They left the theatre house and by early evening arrived at a makeshift tavern they’d been frequenting in the slums. John paid for a bottle of some homebrewed sweet liquor. 

“So, why did you go back for the money?” He asked after they’d had a good few shots, feeling a bit woozier now but also in a way more clear headed. 

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t go back for the money, did you?”

Arthur lifted her head from her uninjured forearm and stared at him. Cheeks glowing red.

“Did you go back cause you thought he’d be there?”

“Who cares? It’s all over now…”

“I care.”

“You don’t care shit, Marston…”

“No, I want to know.”

“Went for the money. Not everything I do is for him, you dumbass…”

“So what happened?”

“What happened was that I got ambushed by Micah Bell and he pulled a knife on me, tried to stab me in the gut, so I shielded myself with the arm like so, and you know the rest…”

“And Dutch?”

“Goddamnit Marston you’re such a child! How many times do you want to hear the same story? Dutch didn’t let me kill Micah. He left. Then you came…”

Arthur had refused to tell him how exactly Dutch had stopped her from killing Bell, or why he had left, and she seemed to persist in refusing to do so now. But John could be persistent too.

“I don’t want to hear the same story. I want to hear what really happened. How did you get stabbed in the shoulder, for example? Was it Micah or-”

“It was Micah, who else!?” Arthur slammed a fist on the table and got up. “Let’s go back.” But fell back down on her chair almost immediately, holding her head in her hands. When she tilted her face upwards she had a grin across her lips. “Heh, least it’s symmetrical now.”

“What is?”

“The shoulder scars.” Morgan raised both eyebrows, and both hands to point towards the wounds on her shoulders. “And you might be happy to know Mister Bell is now one-eyed, if he is still alive. You didn’t get to see him up close, did you?”

“Nah, he ran straight for the caves when I shot at him.”

They sighed simultaneously, and after a moment of silence stood up and headed for their temporary home in silent agreement. Just as John reached for the door, Arthur spoke. 

“Let’s go for a walk.”

John nodded. It was more of a zigzag stroll, what with them both drunk, and Arthur leaning on him, which had him stride in diagonal lines. Eventually he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, surprised to feel her recline against his chest. Soon enough he had to rest his back against a tree for support. It was an odd position, but he didn’t mind. 

“I’m afraid, John.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That I might do something stupid…”

“That’s what you always do, ain’t it?”

Morgan tilted her head and looked up at him with unimpressed eyes. 

“You’re the worst listener I’ve ever met. Poor Abigail… Here I’m opening up to you-”

“That what you’re doing?” He bent and kissed her brow. “Cause to me it sounds like you’re bullshitting.” He continued before she could object: “The Arthur Morgan I know is never afraid of doing something stupid. That’s what we live for, ain’t it? I’ve been doing everything stupid in my whole life and look at me, I’m fine, ain’t I? But Dutch and Hosea, they were wise and smart, look where that got them… One dead, the other-”

“Thanks, Marston, I know what happened.” 

“Well, thank you…”

“Huh?”

“For being here, for being here for me all these years.”

“Don’t be a fool, I should be thanking you. You saved my life.”

“Then why don’t you?” John smiled somewhat mischievously, rocking Arthur gently in his arms, to the other’s mild annoyance.

“What?”

“Thank me.”

“Nah. It’ll get into your head, you’d think I owe you or something and I don’t like-”

John tipped his head to see why Arthur had suddenly gone silent. She was biting her lower lip, looked distressed, haunted almost. 

“What’s the matter?” He let his fingers glide through her hair, such a mess it was. “You alright?”

“Nothing, forget it.”

He didn’t ask. Instead tilted her chin upwards and brushed his lips on hers, tip of his tongue touching hers. Gentle as it comes. Like she was made of glass and he was afraid she might shatter into a thousand pieces if he was anything but gentle. She responded, but even he could tell it felt forced. So he stopped, gaze questioning.

“Don’t feel like it anymore, John.”

“Doesn’t feel good?”

“Doesn't feel like anything.” Arthur was looking at him now. “Besides you should be with Abigail, from now on I mean.”

“You said that before…” He sighed.

“I mean it this time.” The tone was not half as firm as John’s aching cock. “It feels wrong. Guess it’s cause we ain’t part of a gang anymore, no more outlaws, like we have to abide by their rules now.”

“Says who?”

“I can’t say… What did you think would happen when you said you wanted to build a house for Abigail? This is normal life, John. And I don’t like it, not even the thought of it. Don’t think I ever shall. Maybe that’s why it never worked with Mary… What we had in the gang, it was so different. No one judged anyone for being who they are. Sure we made fun of Uncle and he was a pain in the ass, but we loved him all the same, didn’t we?”

“Guess we did.” John chuckled. His back was beginning to get sore and numb from being pressed against the tree bark. “Who knows we might meet him again…”

Arthur laughed as well, her tone more sober after the passage of a few seconds: “Now I feel like everything I want to do is wrong. Like _I_ am wrong.”

“Well, I reckon no one in decent society appreciates your violent urges, Morgan…” He grinned. “But I know what you mean.”

Then again, John had always felt like that, even in the gang. It was one of the things that attracted him to Abigail. She seemed to be an outsider as well, which didn’t show that much since she could blend in if she wanted to, and she had the excuse of being a mother, but he could tell from her manners, the way she liked to spend time on her own, unlike the other girls. 

“And the worst part is,” Arthur was saying as they slid down slowly to sit on the soft ground, John’s back still resting against the tree trunk as he held Arthur in his arms, sitting between his parted legs with her back pressed to his chest. “I seem to care? Like I can’t help it. Back then, in the gang, I didn’t give a shit what the rest of the world thought as long as I had the backing of our folk. Now it’s different, Marston. Feels like I’ve woken up from a long spell of happy drunkenness to find that the world and everything in it is so hideous, like I’ve died and-”

“Let’s not talk about death no more,” He interjected before Morgan could go on one of her melancholic monologues again. He brushed off a few strands twirling round her neck and nuzzled the revealed spot with his nose, then mouth. “Never met someone dead who talked so much…”

He kissed the same spot over and over, hands moving on their own to her belly, staying. Felt so good doing that. He’d been too stupid to do it with Abigail and now if felt like he’d been given a second chance. A sigh escaped John when he felt hands covering his own, softly stroking. 

“You sure you don’t want it?” He nudged her earlobe with his nose. “One last time?”

“Don’t tempt me, Marston…”

“Yeah? But I want to…” He licked her neck. “Bad little brother that I am...”

“Not that one now…”

She was coming alive, slowly, skin growing warmer under his touch. Made him feel dizzy.

“Which one then?”

“Hmm… Did Hosea ever read Shakespeare to you?”

“He tried, but I don’t remember much. I was more into Dutch’s stories.” An involuntary smile sat on his lips at the memory of story nights around the campfire. Until a certain age he used to think of Dutch as the most daring and glamorous person in the whole world. Wanted to be just like him, asked for it every time he remembered to pray. “Can’t we just be us tonight?”

“Please no,” She lifted his right hand, turned it this way and that, ran her fingers along his, kissed the knuckles, every lick along the prominent veins crossing the back of his hand kindling twitches in his prick. “The story is that there is this woman and his man, Scottish nobility, who gets told that they’ll inherit the throne, so they kill the king who is staying at their house as a guest. Then they’re driven mad by guilt.”

“What part of it is… you know?” 

“The bit where they fuck with their hands all bloody. Not written, but I figure it happened.”

“Right…” He held her hand in his and pressed the palm to his mouth. “So I’m the Scottish lord?” 

“You’re the lady.”

“So I’m your woman?” He moved his left hand to her breast.

“You’re my woman.” Her hand slid between them, cupped his clothed erection.

“Should we get our hands bloody then?”

“Why just hands? I want to see you in covered in it. You up for it, Marston?”

He responded in the affirmative and soon they were riding on the back of a stolen horse towards the swamps, Morgan reasoning that it’d be easier to get rid of a body there. They found a lonesome traveller whom they robbed and murdered, one last sacrifice to fate for good fortune before they would wash their hands of all crime. Arthur knew of a boathouse nearby. It was still there. Still empty. 

John felt odd. So odd in fact that he even enjoyed the music playing from the phonograph Morgan had just wound on, once they’d lit a few candles. They even danced a bit, until he was pushed back unexpectedly and slapped hard, blood painted across half his face when he looked at its reflection in the window pane. 

“You gone mad!?” He spat, trying to wipe the stain off his face, but only managed to smear it on his sleeve. “What was that for?” 

He was slapped again, harder, on the other side. Morgan had this strange look in her eyes, like she was in pain, from the impact no doubt since her shoulder and forearm were still healing. 

“Do something, John,” She said, demanding. 

He didn’t like it, never seen her like that before. John frowned. 

“Ain’t you hurt enough?”

She tried to hit him again and he stopped her this time, seizing both her hands, had to wrestle her onto the floor to prevent her from kicking him in the groin. Pinned her down, both were panting now. 

“Haven’t we had enough already?” 

He insisted, kissing her neck, thinking it would calm her, but it had the opposite effect, made it worse. He felt his own anger rising now, knowing what she wanted. He didn’t want to do it, didn’t have it in him, or maybe he did and was afraid to set it free.

“For Christ’s sake John... don’t be gentle…”

He could sense how it hurt her, every little gesture usually considered to be kind. Did he want to hurt her? She wanted him to hurt her, but not like this, or to this degree perhaps. But he couldn’t help it, so he picked her up and put her on the bed, kisses tender as he undressed her, leaving blood streaks along her cheeks gently as he wiped away the tears, gently as he entered her. Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t feel the guilt like she did, even if they doused their bodies in blood.

Each time he whispered to her that he loved her, she tightened around him, clutched at his shoulders tighter, dug her fingernails into his back more viciously, answering his kisses with bites, mean and savage. Anger erupting. Gaze doubting, doubting, always doubting, and John wondered if this was how Dutch felt when he fucked her. Did the doubt turn him on? 

John gently guided Arthur’s hands to his throat, asking her to choke him, use it to empty the rage, but she was either not listening or didn’t care to, and he found himself growing even more gentle, kissing and stroking her breasts, sucking lovingly on her nipples, sighing to feel the rounded belly against his now exposed stomach each time he moved gently inside her, her heat gripping his length, tighter now when he shifted the focus of one hand to her clit, having first dabbed her belly with a bit of red offering for safe delivery, pinching then massaging the nub gently, the way she’d taught him to, not guessing at the time he would use it against her. 

She wept when her orgasm hit her, and laughed also. He laughed with her, not minding that she’d called someone else’s name, either to get back at him or... But kept fucking her, gently, gently, not paying attention to either threats, sarcastic remarks, coaxes meant to make him come faster, which unfortunately worked, especially when she began biting and licking his throat, pulling on his hair hard, his eyes rolling back along with the backward tilt of the head. Panting, panting, John thrusted faster now, pressing himself into the body beneath him, licking the bandaged shoulder, biting, howling…

“You feel better now?”

He didn’t pull out when he asked that, fearing that pulling out might imply the last time was over. She responded by wrapping a lazy arm around his waist and he pressed her to himself, feeling something dormant in himself move. Didn’t usually happen with Abigail, she was always too strong to let him take care of her like this. It was usually the other way around with her. But Arthur, at this very hour, seemed open to his care, which made him feel something foreign but pleasant also. 

“You know,” He murmured, wishing to please her perhaps. “Since you miss the gang, how about we form our own? Just the two of us.”

She opened her eyes. 

“We could call it The Prodigal Sons, to fit your guilt account,” John suggested. “How about that?”

“Morgan & Boy sounds more appropriate. Mind pulling out?”

“I know! Tacitus van Wingore &-”

“Reckon if it’s a secret gang, it doesn’t need a name… Seeing as I’m older and have more gang experience, I’m the boss now.” She waited for a moment before adding: “As my right hand boy, Marston, you have one job from now on, and that is to remind me we made the right decision.”

“Can do better, Morgan. I’ll remind you we had no other choice.”


	40. Viel, Wanderer, weißt du mir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack’s POV.
> 
> Epilogue.

**1907**

“Mimi! You up here?”

Jack climbed down the barn loft and paced the distance to the small hill overlooking the farmhouse, hoping he would have a better view of the ranch from up there.

“Mimi!”

No luck there either… Jack loved his little sister, but boy could she be trouble. In a way she was his opposite. As much as he loved to sit somewhere calm and quiet and read all day, losing himself in the comforting familiarity of various magical lands, she wanted nothing more than to spend all day outdoors, swinging from tree branches, jumping over fences, chasing chickens and rabbits, hunting treasure with Rufus, and riding Jack’s pony whenever she was allowed to, which was most of the time, cause he never had the heart to deny her anything, not when she looked up at him with those large blue-green eyes. 

“Mimi!!”

And now Lord knew where she’d gone off to. His mother would have his head- no both their heads if they didn’t return in time for lunch… He took out his treasured pocket watch - a gift from his father - and became even more agitated to realise it was already past noon. At least he felt better knowing she had taken Rufus with her, as there was no sign of the pup anywhere either. The horses were all in the corral, so he reasoned she couldn’t have gone far. The way things looked though, he would have to continue his search outside the ranch enclosure. He could think of a few places she could have gone to, the usual haunts she frequented whenever she felt like playing on her own. In the end he decided to search the more dangerous locations first, so he headed for the river, where his Pa and him had seen a cougar once - not to mention the danger of drowning in the river… Shaking these anxious thoughts away, Jack increased his walking tempo to a running pace and by the time he got to the river he was panting heavily. There was no sign of the girl by the riverbank either, so he determined to continue his search in the periphery of Beecher’s Hope, calling out to Mimi and Rufus alternately. They couldn’t have gone that far, could they? Though earlier when he asked Uncle, the old man said he hadn’t seen the girl at all that morning. Belatedly Jack wished he had brought the pony with him…

It was to the west of the ranch, some good distance away, after searching for about half an hour when he finally heard Rufus’s bark, closely followed by Mimi’s merry voice shouting at him to join them. His fear, having subsided just a moment earlier, returned when he saw her on top of an unfamiliar horse, sitting in front of an imposing stranger. He should have brought a gun with him…

“Hello, young man. You must be this brave Lancelot I keep hearing about.” 

The man’s voice sounded vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t place it. As did his appearance when Jack had a chance to cast a better look at him once he had let Mimi slide down the saddle and himself had dismounted, stood facing them both. Judging by the dust covering his long black coat, black hat, full beard and dark features, he must have travelled a long way, came from New Austin in all probability.

“Your sister is quite an adventurer to venture so far on her own.”

“She is, yes… Thanks for bringing her back, sir.” Jack nodded shyly at the man, still not knowing if he should be thanked, and turned to the girl. “Have you thanked the gentleman properly, Mimi?”

“Mimi?” The man repeated, eyebrows raising in mild astonishment. “Is that what the young lady’s name is? She told me it was Belle Black.”

“She likes to pretend, it’s a play on Black Belle, the out- adventurer woman she admires.” Jack frowned at a grinning Mimi. He had told her many times before not to act her pretend play with strangers. As if to prove they weren’t all mad hillbillies, he extended a hand towards the man with some confidence like he’d seen his Pa do. “Jack Marston.”

The man paused a bit before shaking his hand, firmly. For some reason he seemed to be even more surprised than before when he’d heard the girl’s real name, but smiled eventually as he moved to sit on a nearby rock. The stranger took off his hat and wiped his brow with a checkered neckerchief before lighting a cigarette, which he offered to Jack first, the boy shaking his head in refusal, snatching away the girl’s hand when she tried to reach for it.

“You live nearby?” The man asked, eyeing them carefully though not unkindly.

Before Jack could respond Mimi jumped in: “Yes, over there, in that yonder ranch. You can see the chimney smoke from here if you squint. It’s a one of kind ranch, the best in these parts. One of these days I’ll start running things, seeing as my cousin here has no head nor hand for ranching. He doesn’t even like horses that much!” She stopped playing with Rufus’s ears to place her hands on her hips indignantly. “Can you believe it?”

“Hmm, no… But I guess there are other things he’s good at?”

“Oh yeah, he can read pretty well. He can keep an eye on the accounts, I suppose.”

“And you said you are cousins?” The man took a drag from his cigarette. “Not siblings then?”

“Sort of, you see-”

“We are cousins, but we grew up together, so we’re close as siblings,” Jack explained, hoping they could wrap this up and leave soon. “Well, then, I think-”

“We are cousins _and_ brother and sister,” Mimi interrupted, clearly not ready to leave yet. It still surprised Jack how she sometimes warmed up to random strangers and disliked others without knowing anything about them. “His Ma is my Ma, but his Pa ain’t, I think. I already have a Pa, see. Well, reckon I have two Pas and a Ma. It’s complicated…” She ended with a sigh. Then added: “One of my Pas is gone hunting with Uncle Charles, but the other one is at home. You should come and meet him! And my Ma. She can be a bi- a bit mean, but she’s nice enough if you behave.”

“Mimi!” Jack scolded the little girl. “Sorry, sir, I don’t think-”

“No need to worry, son.” The stranger said, looking somewhat more contemplative than before. “I won’t impose on you, as I have some business that needs attending to at the moment.” He moved his gaze to the girl again. “Tell me, Miss Mimi, does your mother have the same lovely eyes as you do?”

“Nah, took after one of my Pas.”

She was trying to act all tomboyish, but Jack could see she was flattered and blushed even a little. For a moment he bristled to think he’d seen the man reach with a hand to take hold of the girl’s, but he must have imagined it, or perhaps it had been an involuntary reaction and the man had withdrawn his hand quickly as he’d moved it in the first place. 

“It’s a pretty colour.” The stranger’s smile grew warmer.

“I know.” Mimi stood taller, flipping her barely shoulder-length mess of a black mane to a side. “You should see me when I’m all dressed up. Bet you ain’t never see a prettiest lady in your whole life!”

“Mimi…” Jack warned in a hushed tone, growing embarrassed in the girl’s stead.

“Indeed I have not,” The man chuckled. Then stared at her in a somewhat strange manner before taking off a glove and then a ring which he handed to the girl. “Pretty lady like you should have a nice ornament too, don’t you think?”

“I ain’t much for jewellery,” Mimi replied, biting the ring to make sure it was real gold, then eyeing the sun through its loop while pushing away Rufus who probably thought the ring was a snack. “Reckon I can sell it and get a good filly one day, huh? So… RAWWWR!” 

Jack had to cut his facepalm short to explain: “Tha-”

Mimi beat him to it: “Means ‘much obliged’ in bear language. Pa taught me.”

“Impressive!” The man flashed her a grin. “You and your Pa are something...”

She beamed at the man and curtsied politely, which made Jack’s jaw drop cause he’d never seen her do so. 

“You may do as you wish with the gift, of course,” The man reluctantly took his eyes off the child and stood up. He extinguished the cigarette butt under a boot and walked towards his horse, took out a book from the saddlebag and offered it to Jack. “I’ve heard you like books, Mr Marston. This is a good one.”

Before Jack had a chance to open the book, the man had mounted and was seemingly ready to go on his way when he paused and spoke.

“I’ll be in Blackwater for a while. Maybe we’ll meet each other again.”

“Sure! That’d be real fine!” Mimi shouted at the rider, waving an enthusiastic hand.

Jack wasn’t so sure that would be a good idea. The way the man looked at them both, especially at Mimi, made him nervous. Like he recognised them, but they didn’t know him obviously, and just then he remembered the man hadn’t give him his name when he gave him his. Even more suspicious... So he chided Mimi for riding with strangers, which she didn’t pay a mind to as usual, and told him she’d been tired after her morning journey. When he asked her what she had been up to so far away from the ranch, she explained how Uncle had told her about a secret spot in Tall Trees where she’d be able to see badgers and foxes dancing in the morning mist.

“And?” Jack asked as they headed home. “You saw them?”

“Nah… Got tired before I could get there, chasing Rufus who kept getting distracted by creatures. Then saw this man riding all lonesome and asked him if he’d sell me his horse in exchange for Rufus, who was being a bad boy at the time otherwise I never would have proposed such a deal, on my honour.”

“And you made yourself so dirty,” Jack tutted, drawing out a clean handkerchief to wipe the girl’s dirt-smudged face, revealing a beauty mark on the left corner of her mouth. “What only a day after Ma washed you so clean too…”

“She’ll be so angry…” Mimi bit her lower lip, but smiled her one-tooth missing smile anyway. “It was worth it though. Got this shiny ring! See the lion, great ain’t it? Think I shall keep it, fits nicely on my thumb. What’s your gift about?”

Jack had forgotten about the book he was clutching tightly under his arm and opened it to finally reveal the title, both of them standing under the shade of a tree after they’d climbed through the ranch’s fence. 

“ _The Year I Lived as a Man._ ” He read the title out loud. “ _Or 365 Days of Privilege: The True Testimony of a Woman Who Lived as a Man for a Whole Year and Witnessed How Easy Life is for that Sex Compared to the Life of What is Known as the Fairer Sex, though Fair Their Lot is Not._ By Susan Grimshaw-O’Shae. Printed in 1901 in New York by The Uranian Press.”

“Impressive… Oh look!”

Jack watched Mimi’s hand pointing at a paper that had slipped from in-between the book’s pages as he flipped through them. He picked it up. It was a letter. He was about to put it back between the pages when Mimi insisted they read it, saying how Aunt Sadie always did that and how fun it was. So they sat at the foot of the tree and began reading:

_Dutch,_

_Two years is a long time. Long enough to provide one with time to reflect on one’s mistakes and to learn to forgive. I forgive you, and with that I hope that I can forget you. I ask you not to seek either me or Rotterdam ever again. You’ll not be welcomed here._

_It took me a great deal of reflection to understand we were not suited to each other. At least not under the circumstances we were in. I needed someone who could tend to my emotional needs and who would let me do the same for them. You needed someone with a different sort of strength._

_As it is, I’m very happy with Susan here in New York. We have a good circle of friends. We both write. She writes political pamphlets and is a vocal voice in women’s movements. I write poetry and plan to publish my first book very soon. Rotterdam enhances our happiness, and we will fight tooth and nail to keep him._

_Perhaps I will let you see him sometime in the future, but that day has not yet come. Perhaps it never will. I do not wish him to have any connections at all with the outlaw life. Here with us he is safe and happy._

_With respect,_

_M.G.O._

_P.S. We saw Strauss a few times. He is now-_

The children were both started to hear Abigail shouting. They jumped from their perches, leaving the rest of the letter for later.

“Dutch…” Mimi whispered as they walked towards the house. “Like Dutch van der Linde! The famous outlaw gang leader? I’m pretty sure I’ve got his cigarette card! Was that the same man we just met!?”

“Reckon it was…”

“Woah!” Mimi’s enthusiasm was matched only by Rufus’s who kept jumping about and circling her. “We met a real gang boss! Woah!!”

“Shhh!” Jack hushed her and stopped her before they stepped inside. “Promise me you won’t tell Ma or anyone else, okay?” 

“Why not?”

“Cause they won’t like it, I’ll get into trouble…” Jack reasoned. “They will be mad if they knew I let you meet him.”

“You didn’t let me! I did it on my own accord.”

“Then you’ll get into trouble.”

She didn’t look too convinced, but relented in the end.

“Okay, I promise,” The girl shrugged. “If you promise not to tell them where I went.”

“I promise.”

Jack nodded in agreement and went inside, forgetting all about the ring Mimi was still wearing on her thumb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone for the lovely comments and for the kudos. Each one meant a lot to me and helped motivate me greatly :)
> 
> Thanks especially to Nibbitthecat and Barbarosabee for your support. For a commitment-phobe person like me this was such a daunting task and I nearly gave up a few times, but thought if you guys are still reading I’ll keep writing! And now it’s done :D
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed reading this strange fic!


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